Far Away From Home
by BlueStoneArcher
Summary: Vulcan is destroyed. Six billion of lives lost. An estimate of ten thousand rescued from the planet in the last moments. But what of the other Vulcans, far from home? On distant Qo'Nos, a small group of delegates and their staff reel in shock from the sudden loss of their planet. One security officer, in particular, is pushed to the very brink. FtM/F OC pairing.
1. Six Billion Dead

A/N: After recently rewatching a certain awesome movie, I found my mind wondering about all the Vulcans off-planet when their Homeworld was destroyed. Certainly not all would have the extremely strong bond that (I'm sure we all assume) Spock and Kirk have/had/will develop. What would they feel? The pain of their bondmate? Confusion? Nothing at all? The general consensus is, of course, that the bond is in place for many biological reasons, those of protection of one's mate at the forefront of my mind as my fingers began typing without my consent.

Thus, Vuron's story began to unfold before my eyes. What I'd intended to be a short romp in the mind of a minor staff member of an offworld Ambassador has gotten a tad out of hand... and now he demands his story be shared. Please forgive the slow-ish build. Sometimes he dictates calmly, sometimes he yells, so I can't quite predict how long each chapter will be, let alone how long the finished product.

Rated M for future violence and erm... predictable Vulcan biological complications. Also queer-ish relationships, and varying responses to those issues, because there's plenty enough hetero stuff out there as it is.

Star Trek is of Gene Roddenberry/Paramount Studios/JJ Abrams. I own none but this work and non-canon characters within. Work published for shared fun, not profit.

Enjoy!

* * *

Vuron's hand hesitated imperceptibility, the tea within the coarse metal goblet sloshing before coming up to his lips. He glanced sideways at his compatriots; he expected the subtly quirked eyebrow in query to his obvious sign of distress. Instead, pain stained each of their faces.

The way the Klingons carried on across the mediation table, none noticed the seemingly dramatic change in the Vulcan ambassador and his staff.

How any could miss...

The screams. Terror. Pain. Fear. Vuron's own lungs burned for want of air. Vertigo threatened to turn his stomach, sucking him down, down, into an endless pit of...

Emptiness.

A void so empty and deep nothing could escape. Not light, nor hope, nor life.

Ambassador Sranak allowed himself a slightly longer blink than normal, picking up his end of the discussion with no pause at all; his only concession that yes, he too sensed something dramatically wrong.

Discussion continued well into the night. Bids for mining rights here, travel routes there, compensation if an agreement was broken.

Vuron found himself grinding his molars. The emptiness inside ate at his belly.

"I think we have achieved as much as can be expected, for today," Sranak finally declared.

T'Luminareth actually sighed in relief. The Klingon council members about them stared at her. She pushed herself out of her chair first, nodding a curt bow and excusing herself from the room.

"Hmm... yes. We shall return to our discussions tomorrow."

"Of course, Chancellor Ka'Tra. Have a pleasant evening."

The rest of Sranak's staff followed at the proper distance behind the ambassador. If only the last man in the group noticed the clenched hands, the tightened shoulders, all the better.

T'Luminareth, their mining expert, awaited them at the shuttle that would return them to their apartments. She had regained her composure. A tenuous grip, perhaps, but she remained calm while they returned.

Mindful of the Klingon pilot, they remained silent. The perfect picture of Vulcan composure.

The serving woman that opened the door for Sranak was a completely different matter.

T'vei, a meek, older woman who had gone mostly grey faced Sranak at the door. Her eyes were swollen, skin puffed and shockingly green. Even her nose tinted green from burst capillaries. Her cheeks so pale, what little blood in her face stood out like a beacon.

She sniffed, keeping what little control she had, and stepped out of the doorway so the Ambassador and his staff could enter the building.

Vuron, as the Ambassador's security officer, entered last, closing the door behind him.

"Ambassador," T'vei's voice somewhere between professional and plea. Her eyes glimmered tellingly.

"Yes, T'vei."

"They're dead sir. They're all dead."

Vuron swallowed, his mind searchingly returning to the great hole in his self.

"Please, explain yourself."

"The bondmates. All of our bondmates. My... my husband. They're all gone."

The four other servants appeared from the darkened hallway. All showing the pain of grief. Sunken eyes. Squared or dropped shoulders. Wringing hands.

"Surely not all," T'Phev, the Amabassador's secretary, protested.

Sranak turned between each of his staff members. Vuron could see just as plainly as he. They all suffered the same pain.

"What has happened," T'vei pleaded.

"There must be a logical reason... ideas?"

"Some kind of forcefield?" T'Luminareth offered hopefully. "Blocking us off from our mates?"

"To what purpose?" Vuron returned.

"Set us off balance. On the defensive. These Klingons are warlike in the extreme. If they sought a way to instigate-"

Sranak shook his head. "No. They have no knowledge of our touch-telepathy. Or any comprehension of how powerful the connection with our bondmates."

"Assuming they did," T'Sai, who solely served as their psychological and physiological doctor on this diplomatic mission. "How would they accomplish this block? They are barely capable of spaceflight. Their sciences are devoted to destruction. I have seen no evidence in research in psionics."

Sranak nodded sagely.

"Then that leaves us with two rather distressing theories. A targeted attack on us, and thus our families. Or..."

The silence at the second option curled around the emptiness they all felt.

"Where was your bondmate?" Sranak asked T'vei.

"Vulcan. With our children."

"T'Luminareth?"

"Serving on the Behemoth. Dry dock on Vulcan."

He posed the same question to each individual in the room. Over and over the same answer. Vulcan. Vulcan. Vulcan. Home.

"I sensed..." Vuron responded, when Sranak finally turned to him. "I sensed falling. And lack of air."

The others looked back and forth. Seeking confirmation. The long, empty stares.

"Screaming," T'Sai finally said. It only made sense she would have one of the stronger connections. "Minutes of screaming, and running, before..." She closed her eyes. Trying to remember. Not wanting to. "Possibly an evacuation?"

The statistical chance that all of their bondmates were _not_ stretched across the entire planet were astronomically low.

"Planet-wide evacuation?"

T'vei finally did sob aloud. She covered her mouth, as if to take back the surge of emotion. No one would look at her. All in their own private hell.

"Mr. Vuron, please try to open an emergency subspace channel to Vulcan. We must ascertain the facts before we speculate farther."


	2. Noisy Static

Vuron spent an hour sweeping for any feed to Vulcan. He kept his face blank while the Ambassador stared at him.

"Can you get nothing, Mr. Vuron? Have you attempted sending a signal?"

"Yes, sir. There is static. Noisy static."

Sranak pinched the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion wore him down. For once, he looked all of his one hundred and seventy-five years.

He'd shed his official robes after dismissing the rest of his staff. Not that he would censor any information available, but Vuron felt certain that the older man would try to soften the blow, somehow.

"You are young, Mr. Vuron."

The young officer felt his cheeks warm. He could think of no proper response to that.

"How long were you bonded with your mate?"

"Sixteen years."

The older man nodded sagely.

"I was married one hundred, thirty-three years, seven months, two days."

"Children?"

The Ambassador's eyes tightened a little. Nearly a smile.

"My second granddaughter was born just before I left for this mission."

Vuron nodded, understanding. More reason to find some connection.

"I think part of the problem is that there are multiple signals using the same frequency. Given enough time, I could filter out specific messages-"

Sranak made a cutting gesture with his hand. "There is little possibility that a single signal will give us the data we need. It would be a waste of resources."

Vuron grit his teeth again.

The next logical thing to do would be to sweep all the star bases and outposts in the area, but he knew there would be no hope of contact there either, considering how scrambled all the signals were.

With the flip of his fingers, he switched his target to Starfleet. Sranak made no secret of his opinion of the organization. "Destined to be as short-lived as the humans that started it," would perhaps be the kindest thing that could be said.

To the humans credit, however, he quickly got an official on the comms. The little screen on his personal computer flicked rapidly from black sweeps to the picture of a woman in a gold uniform. He could see several rows of similarly garbed individuals behind her, each with their comm units in ears, talking rapidly.

"Commander Smith," answered the young looking woman. Beleaguered. Hair astray. Eyes wide. Skin ashen, even under the smoky brown of her natural color. "How can I be of assistance?"

Vuron blinked at the question. Not "Who are you?" or, "How may I direct your communiqué?" but "How can I help?" Their assumption of a disaster, rather than a targeted attack on Sranak's people, gained purchase.

"We can't get in contact with Vulcan," he found himself answering plainly. "Is there-"

"Are you safe?"

Ambassador Sranak watched him. He couldn't hear the other side of the conversation whispering through the bud in Vuron's ear, but he knew well enough to whom he spoke. There would be no one else he would use Earth Standard with.

"I am an officer with Ambassador Sranak. He and his staff are on Qo'noS for a treaty mission."

The woman offered him a weak smile. "Thank god for that. Stay where you are. Do not return to Vulcan space. I am going to redirect you to non-emergency services."

"Commander-"

"You have my condolences, sir."

With that the screen flicked to black, an even tone of music tinkling through his earpiece. Put on hold. He found human's need for music while waiting to be equal parts irritating and soothing. In the past he would spend this time wondering if a separate selection of music would make the practice more tolerable. Of course, this would mean a separate selection based on species, and that would become quite cumbersome as-

"Ambassador Sranak," an even younger man faced him now.

"No, I am his security officer." It felt petty introducing himself, under the circumstances. "What has happened to Vulcan."

The man covered his wavering blue eyes with a hand.

"I'm... I'm so sorry. I thought they would have told you. Everyone... You are in a secure location, yes?"

Vuron nodded. "Yes."

"I will queue up files for you then, so you can see."

"See?"

Before he could ask more, several file transfer requests blocked the man's face. He quickly approved them. Progress bars minimized so the small screen was once again filled with the man's concerned face.

"Everything is pretty much... settled now. Refugees are coming in, so don't give up hope yet, okay? Starfleet is doing everything we can to get... everyone back safe and sound. I'm sure we'll... find..."

That ragged hole in his chest tugged at him once again.

Meaningless platitudes. How often had this man, and the nearly hundred in the room around him, been offering some version of the same today?

Hope. Nearly more painful that someone tried to offer that small "olive branch," as the humans put it. Especially when most likely every person this man had spoken with already knew the truth in their minds.

"How many?"

"How many?"

"How many refugees?"

Sranak stiffened visibly.

The human swallowed audibly. "Early estimates are between ten and a hundred thousand."

"Quite the variation in estimations."

He pinkened. "I'm sorry. That's as accurate as we can get right now. Everything is up in the air."

"'Up in the air,'" Vuron quoted. What a strange phrase.

"Wow, I'm sorry, that was... I just... we're all having trouble just absorbing what's happened."

_Shock. Of course._ An entire race in shock.

Vuron nearly felt laughter bubbling up.

"We are working to keep communication open," the human unsubtly hinted. "Is there anything we can do for the Ambassador for now?"

Vuron glanced at the older Vulcan. "No. I will share the data you've sent. I assume we can call back if there are further questions?"

"Of course. We are working to locate all offworld Vulcans and keep them appraised of what's going on. Starfleet will contact you on this frequency the moment we know anything more."

"Thank you."

In a strangely touching move, the man lifted his hand, with his fingers awkwardly split. Offering the traditional "Live Long and Prosper," stammered out in a halting Vulcan dialect, he signed off.


	3. Refugees

He let the Ambassador see the materials first, but he already had an idea of how bad it must be.

Vuron stood outside the door to his private quarters, waiting further orders. Trying to ignore the odd passerby. Not even Vulcans were immune to curiosity. Especially–

"Mr. Vuron."

He opened his door. Sranak sat before Vuron's personal computer screen. His narrow shoulders hiding whatever he saw.

"Yes, sir?"

"Gather everyone in the common room, please."

He nodded.

Most of the higher ranking staff were already gathered.

Sranak gave him a questioning look when he finally entered, glancing at the lower ranking staff. Vuron squared his shoulders at the decision. They might be little more than cooks, maids, and pilots, but they deserved to know. The older Vulcan glanced away. As close to acquiescence as he would allow.

"Have you been able to contact Vulcan?" T'Luminareth pipped in.

Sranak looked to the young security officer.

"Channels throughout our system are garbled. It seems everyone," _everyone still alive,_ "Is talking at once. However, I was able to get in contact with Starfleet."

Surreptitious glances at the Ambassador revealed nothing.

"They sent a video," he finally relented. With a few clicks on the seldom used entertainment system, one of the files the human had sent popped up onto the large screen.

Their collective breaths released at the site of their desert home. The feed obviously taken from some distant satellite. Sranak sped through the feed, showing a Romulan mining ship, corrupted by some unknown force, going into orbit. The destruction of so many Vulcan and Federation ships. The mining drill. He finally slowed the feed to realtime as a probe dropped from the mining ship.

Vuron held his breath as the probe fell. Sunlight flickered over its metal surfaces. In his mind, he heard the echo of a million voices screaming out for help.

Then... And then... Everything just... collapsed.

Suddenly, no more home. No more people.

"The USS Enterprise succeeded in saving the elders," Ambassador Sranak calmly intoned. "There are other refugee ships, of course. Along with our colonies and other explorative vessels."

"Starfleet estimates between ten and one hundred thousand of our people survive," Vuron quoted without thought.

Sranak nodded.

"Our work here now is more important than ever. Without the potential resources and allies we gain here on Qo'noS, our future will be more uncertain. We will complete our mission here before returning to our people."


	4. Change of Plans

A/N: Since the last chapter was so short, I'm going ahead and throwing this one up as well, even though I'm not 100% about it. If I do edit, I'll mention.

The chapters for this fic seem to be on the shortish side... not exactly intention, just the way it's going. I think I'doriginally intended to post this as just one long, lone chapter, but as more and more ideas tumbled out, I realized that would be impractical. So, I'm going to do my best to post two shorts at a time, or one long, as a compromise. Sound good to you? Sounds good to me.

On to the fic!

* * *

Over the following days, discussions became more and more intense. The Klingons took turns at their usual infuriating habits – making fun of the delegates for their lack of home, of people, of honor – and being oddly... delicate. Kind was too inaccurate a word, but occasionally Vuron saw one of the High Council members suggesting a bit of inhospitable land for colonization, or offer a trade that offered them little in benefit past that of favors.

Sranak, in turn, steeled himself with a desperation. He hungrily grabbed at every opportunity. Debated more viciously with the Klingons for any resource on the table. His anger obvious by the hard line of his jaw. Desperation by the cold tenor of his voice.

His staff worried over the emotion they perceived, but could not deny the need. Besides, compared to their Klingon counterparts, who would notice?

Vuron threw himself into his own work. Often bodily.

Whenever he wasn't playing guard or shuttling messages back and forth over subspace, he continued his studies with as many of the local martial arts masters as would work with him.

While the others meditated, or worked, Vuron fell into the meditation of the body. In his youth, he had studied Yoga, T'ai Chi Ch'uan, Aikido, and others from human masters, kharakom – a type of kickboxing – and hleshvalath – wrestling and grappling – from a surprisingly accepting Andorian master, had learned the ancient Vulcan arts from his own parents, and now he took every opportunity he could to learn from the Klingons.

After the first couple weeks, he found he relished the daily training. The feeling of worn leather in his hands. Of steel on steel as he pushed against the master. The tight cording of muscle, the smell of honest sweat and blood-

"Mr. Vuron."

The security officer blinked up at his Ambassador, startled and a bit embarrassed that his thoughts had returned to the previous night's practice.

"The councilor was complimenting your... fighting prowess. You are training with a battlemaster from her clan?"

"Yes, Ambassador. I find Master Chijqa's lessons quite challenging."

"Master Chijqa only told me this morning," the female councilor said. Vuron searched his mind for her name, but strange, fuzzy edges obscured that data. "I was quite surprised. I never thought a stuffy... Vulcan like you would be interested in the art. Master Chijqa finds you an apt pupil."

Vuron felt his lips tug at her omission of an obscenity. Respect for his abilities the only thing that would stay her gruff trivialization.

"Being interested in such an art is not so illogical. I have mastered several similar skills, most from worlds other than my own. I find that they give me more kinetic knowledge of my surrounds, along with my own body. Not to mention the calm of repetition that goes along with physical and mental exercise."

The female laughed heartily, drawing others into it.

"Of course. Ever _logical_." The way she spat out the word left little down her opinion of Vulcan logic.

The Ambassador eyed him for an uncomfortably long moment, before returning his gaze to the Chancellor.

"Chancellor Ka'Tra, I believe you are aware of the recent events on planet Vulcan."

The old Klingon nodded. "Sad events, for your people. I have heard that justice was done, but there is little honor in it."

The Ambassador nodded. Often, Vuron wondered at the lessons in Klingonese that they had all learned. Theoretically, all of Sranak's members were as fluent in it as their own native tongue, but at times like these, when _honor_ was brought in to the conversation, a lifetime of cultural weight sat on their tongues in ways that no amount of history lessons could give.

"- a concerted effort to begin settling one of our recently colonized worlds."

_New Vulcan,_ Vuron thought. Something ached in the pit of his stomach. _The colony had had another name to start with... what was it?_

"I believe we should hold off further negotiations so that I and my staff might be available to go to the colony and offer whatever aid necessary."

Vuron exchanged a meaningful glance between a few of the others. _Why does he suddenly want to leave? Did he not say to finish the task here first?_

"This is highly extraordinary, Ambassador. We offered you leave, and you would not take it. Are you going back on your word to remain until an adequate settlement could be achieved for all?"

"No, of course-"

"Are you implying that we are attempting to take advantage of your weaker bargaining ground?"

"Certainly not."

"Then, perhaps the Ambassador is saying we have no regard for the honor of foreign dignitaries-"

Vuron's fist dented the long table between them. _"How dare you!"_

The echoes in the hall, and the stares of both Klingon and Vulcan dignitaries, slivered into his mind. _Had I... said that outloud?_

The shock of the noise stayed his voice further.

"_Mister_ Vuron." He felt a little shiver go down his spine at the Ambassador's tone. "You will return to our quarters and begin meditations immediately."

"Sir, I-"

A lifted hand stayed the words in his throat.

"I do not wish to hear it, unless you intent to apologize to our hosts."

Vuron gave a short bow from the waist to the Ambassador, quickly did as he had been bid to the council, then gratefully fled the room.

"What a shame," he could hear one Klingon grumble to another. "That one almost seemed interesting."


	5. Further Complications

There was no hope for meditation when he returned to the staff quarters.

Vuron paced back and forth, first in the common room, then the kitchens, and finally his own quarters as the disapproving glances from the help staff chased him away.

_How dare he send me away. I was only defending his word._

To the desk.

_Why would he go against his earlier word, anyway?_

To the bed.

_Certainly there is nothing we could do to assist in readying the colony._

Back to the desk.

_We're only refugees ourselves._

Back to the bed.

_What good would an ambassador and a cluster of expert negotiators do anyway?_

Again, the desk.

_It's illogical to remove us from potentially beneficial works offworld._

Bed.

_We're of more help out here. _

Desk.

_Without mining rights, there are no essential materials for powercells, spaceships-_

His door opened. Vuron spun to face the intruder, not realizing he'd bared his teeth until he saw T'Luminareth's widened eyes.

"What is it?"

"Sranak wants us to all meet in the common room."

"I am not fit for public functions," Vuron surmised.

"It is a matter for everyone, Vuron. Regardless."

She stepped away, leaving him alone in his room with the door open.

Irrational anger simmered. His blood simmered in his veins.

Vuron took several long breaths, trying to calm whatever had caused this strange stress. Perhaps some disease? Impossible; the delegation had arrived on Qo'noS one year, two months, and seven days ago. Surely he would have already shown signs.

Only Sranak's eyes would meet his when he gained the room. Everyone else silently gazed into their own corner of the universe.

"As most of you are aware, I formally requested a pause of negotiations with the Klingon High council," Sranak began, holding up a hand to still any comment. "Whether or not you agree with my request is a moot point. I have spent the last three hours arguing with them; the only success has been to have Klingon heels dug in on the subject. I fear it is a topic that will quickly come to a head."

At this, several eyes turned to Vuron. He swallowed audibly.

"I have a theory, which Doctor T'Sai should be able to verify or perhaps offer a different hypothesis."

The staff separated so that Sranak could see the doctor, a nearly geriatric woman who remained in the house with the servants at the common house so she could conduct her research, from her seated position on one of the few couches.

"What have you concluded?" the woman questioned.

Sranak took a moment to collect his thoughts. With his eyes closed, and his official robes flowing around him, he carried a regal air. That is, until whatever he'd tempted from the depths of his mind settled into his shoulders, the deep grooves of his face, the prominent knuckles of his hands.

"The destruction of our home planet has far-reaching consequences," he finally settled on. "I doubt we have discovered, or will discover, all of these consequences in our lifetimes. The one matter that most concerns me at the moment is that of a certain biological matter."

Again eyes turned to Vuron. He felt the very tips of his ears heat green in embarrassment.

"How far away are you, _Mister_ Vuron, from your _pon farr_?"

"Ambassador, that's a private-"

"Vuron is well over a year away. Are you saying he's shown symptoms?"

The Ambassador nodded sagely.

Doctor T'Sai stood with the help of Sranak's young manservant. Her filmy eyes studied his for a long, uncomfortable moment. Taking in the dilated pupils, the whites around the iris where he couldn't quite calm himself, the rapid breaths.

"I believe your assessment is correct, Sranak. It is common enough for the cycle to be sped up with the loss of a bondmate. Mister Vuron is simply the first to show symptoms. Soon enough we will all need to return home."

_Home. Home. Home._ The words echoed on and on within his aching skull.

"That option has been taken away from us," Sranak said mildly. "We will remain here until negotiations are completed. How long does _Mister_ Vuron have?"

The doctor sighed and motioned for her kit. After a few minutes with her medical scanner, her eyes held a touch of sympathy.

"Your security officer only has a week, perhaps two," She turned her scanner on a few of the others. "No one else shows elevated hormones, at the moment. Perhaps you could arrange passage for Vuron alone offworld?"

The Ambassador shook his head. "Already attempted. Any who show the beginning signs will be immediately relieved of duty and instructed to meditate. Doctor, if you would be willing to assist with whatever sedatives you can offer."

"Of course."

"Dismissed."

Vuron remained where he was, as his coworkers streamed out around him, returning to their lives.

"I said dismissed."

"Sranak, I..."

"We will offer whatever support we can, of course, but you should prepare yourself for the inevitable."

Vuron found himself glaring up at the older man.

"I realize that you have never... approved of my presence, sir, but certainly something can be done."

"Why would you think such?"

"I knew several of the others who applied for my position. Others more experienced. More qualified, sir. In fact, every one of your staff you selected seem to have been selected by the _least_ qualified applicant. The ones of lowest social standing. Eldest. Youngest. No families."

The Ambassador sighed and took the seat the doctor vacated. "Our earliest encounters with these people were less than encouraging. While I could count my career well spent, if it ended here with these negotiations, could I ask the same of my staff?"

"All applied knowing the risks."

"It was still my decision."

Vuron remained standing, hands clasped behind him, as still as a statue while his mind ran. _He hired me to die. He picked me because if I caused a fight, it would be better for my genetic material to not taint our species. And now, because of that decision, _I_ am still alive, while four others who might have taken this job are dead with our world._

"I will perish." Not exactly a question.

"I would suggest the _Kolinahr_, but I believe we are both aware that you are not capable of that much control.Doctor T'Sai will put you in a medically induced coma. You will have a nearly thirty-seven percent chance of surviving in that state until I can finish here. Transit to New Vulcan may lower it to as much as twenty percent."

Vuron rubbed his face with his hands. A painful tingle spread across the back of his skull. The first sign of a severe migraine.

"It sounds like you speak from experience."

The only response was a slight tilt of one eyebrow.

"And if I do not get back in time?"

"Then perhaps your genetic aberration will not be seen in future generations."

With that Sranak stood and left.

Vuron found himself laughing into the empty room.


	6. Painful Memories

A/N: Yey! My first review for FAFH! Thank you T'Sara! Hope you continue to enjoy!

Like many others here (pretty much everyone?) reviews are much appreciated by the creativity monster. Please keep them coming!

Warning: Some FtM-type angst and possible trigger-y young _ponfarr_ instances ahead. Yup, FAFH is finally earning it's M rating.

* * *

Meditation was the only thing left to him.

Vuron volunteered to remain locked in his room, for the emotional wellbeing of the helpstaff, and for the other experts of the negotiation staff, whom had thrown themselves into their work. Desperate to return to their new home before their own time came.

_Death sentence_, his mind screamed. _Even if I got to New Vulcan in time. The chance of finding an acceptable mate are statistically impossible. _His memories circled back continuously to his last _pon farr_, his first _pon farr._ Back to his dead husband.

That first time had been so horrible, so telling.

His mind slipped back to his childhood, back when, at six, he'd been first dragged to the compound of his intended.

Mother and Father, each holding a hand, tugging ever closer.

Petulant lower lip stuck out. No way it would happen. Not going to let it.

Father knocking on the door while Mother knelt to straighten the dress they'd forced onto his... no, her slim form. He'd insisted on being called a boy, had cut his hair awkwardly with blunt-tipped scissors. Burnt all the dressed and stolen Older Brother's pants. Even ran around topless for a year in protest.

"This is the best marriage agreement we can make for you, _considering_," Mother had hissed between clenched teeth. She blamed T'Vuron's constant trials for her early grey hair. The deep sunken splotches under her eyes.

"Brother has a good contract," T'Vuron stubbornly squawked, as a thumb was moistened to smear away some perceived smudge on a young cheek. "Why do I need one? I want to be alone. I don't want a husband."

Mother bit back a groan, sighing dramatically before standing. "You will not always be this way. When you are older, you will want to bare children as I did for your father. You will bond with this boy and when you are of age-"

The door opened to Father, silencing Mother mid-tantrum.

An older matron let them in.

T'Vuron had marveled at the statues. She was to be betrothed to a sculptor's son. She would be hired in the clay quarry and remain here. Working whenever schooling wasn't in session. Mother hoped that digging in dirt, sun-up to sun-down would exhaust all of her daughter's rebellion. Current curriculum reports from the teachers left much to be desired; any time she might miss while gaining _practical experience _would be negligible. One did not unduly deliberate on such things for a student on the lower end of the testing spectrum.

While parents discussed things over her head, assuming she wouldn't understand, she studied the boy. A little older than her. Angry eyes. Broad shoulders. _He_ had a smudge on _his _cheek. His fists were clenched. Ready to fight.

T'Vuron spat at his feet, to test her suspicions.

The boy irrupted in a fury, fists swinging out at her.

Respective parents separated them, but not after she'd gifted her fiancee with a lovely new black eye and a broken thumb.

They hadn't preformed their initial bond for a month. Each day Mother or Father would retrieve her from the quarry, offer a sip of water, then the boy. The first week, she'd spat at him again. The second week, after enough beatings to hurt, and a dearth of food for her belly to rumble, she'd stopped that; the second week, she'd glared over her water, and returned to the cool depths of the quarry. The third T'Vuron took the offered water back down with her, to drink in solitude. The fourth, none was offered.

The bond had been... a thing of disgust.

She'd lain prone in the dust. Too weak to fight back. To weak to run. He'd placed his strong fingers over her face, and pressed his fetid mind into hers. He'd been disgusted by what he found there, naturally, but the deed was done.

"At least you will have strength for the quarries."

He'd dropped the full water skin at her side. The last bit of rebellion she had pulled the stopper out, letting the precious liquid into the dusty soil below her.

When Mother and Father collected T'Vuron, they returned a child to school with a broken desiderate. Math and science tests fell to barely passing levels, while self-defense and history scores soared. Mother took to scolding daily. T'Vuron stopped fighting with Mother and Father. Simply stating the facts and moving on.

There would be no more dresses. There would be no more attempts at protocol lessons. T'Vuron would preform all haircuts.

It took a full year before they accepted these truths.

T'Vuron filled the legal documentation to shorten the name, appropriately, before graduation from school, so all certificates henceforth held only Vuron as the given name. When he'd left home, began life as an adult, it was better. He moved far away, introducing himself with his shortened name. None questioned that he was perhaps short. His voice, perhaps, a bit softer. He preformed his duties admirably, spoke with cunning logic, and debated well with the rest of the men. It simply hadn't mattered anymore what he'd been born as.

Then Vuron's blood first boiled with the _pon farr_, and the urge to go to a man who still had minimal control. Vuron went to the place of challenge. _Koon-et-kalifee._

He had been there. Sellik.

Nose flaring with want. Blood boiling. Roaring in the back of Vuron's mind.

Vuron held only the slimmest note of control now.

The elder asked for seconds to come forth. Vuron had none. A lifetime of social rebellion left him with no one willing to stand at his side.

Sellik had a younger brother. Rellig. Vuron turned blackened eyes at the younger, who submissively turned them aside. Rellig would not fight.

"Who is your champion?" The elder asked.

"I am," Vuron stated. With a dramatic touch, he shredded the ceremonial dress Mother's Mother had supplied. Sellik's eyes had widened at the leather pants underneath. The bare chest bisected with laser scars from where certain horrid tissue had been extracted. The ceremonial man's sash tied around Vuron's waist.

"So, this is what happened to the little slave."

Vuron shouted in fury, snatching the ceremonial weapon before the time had been called.

Sellik used his great strength to lift up a paving stone to block the first stroke. The second he avoided by ducking behind a pillar.

When the coward finally picked up his own weapon, it turned into a battle of strength versus skill and practice. Vuron's body fell to the boiling of his blood. The raw hatred and lust that Sellik pushed through what little bond he'd started when they were children.

When the heavy end of the staff finally struck him in the head, silencing that part of the tide, Vuron nearly laughed in relief.

Terror widened the man's eyes as Vuron lifted the bladed end up over his head, ready to part the sculptor's head from his shoulders.

"Stop!"

Vuron stopped the blade. The shoulder stopped the blade. Green blood welled over sharpy honed steel. Not Sellik's.

Rellig.

The haze cleared like a gust of wind through an otherworldly fog.

The younger brother had thrown himself over his prone sibling.

Vuron pulled up the blade. Blood flowed freely from the innocent youth.

Vuron snarled. His blood ached for Sellik's. His bones ached for it. He wanted to feel bloody muscle within his teeth.

"The bond is broken," an elder declared woodenly.

"My blood still burns," Vuron snarled. "Is there no relief?"

"Not while Sellik lives. Or you remain unbonded."

The weapon raised again.

"No, please," Rellig whispered. "I offer myself. I will not challenge you."

Vuron felt the presence of the younger reaching out to touch his mind, just as his hand reached out to touch the hand still holding the weapon.

Vuron shuddered at the contact.

"Your blood does not burn," Vuron growled. Teeth bared. "You do not know. You do not understand."

"Then show me."

Vuron claimed the boy's skull with his hands. Gripping him tightly. Forcing his mind into the child. Pushing like...

Rellig submitted easily. With the ease of habit. His mind fell away, giving Vuron space. Not taking. Not even asking for mercy.

That simple nothingness finally stayed some of the burning. Vuron pulled back enough to have his own voice again.

"I take your offer, Rellig."

The elder's people dragged away the older brother's unconscious body. Leaving them in peace.

Rellig's body remained as passive and submissive as his mind. Their first mating had been clumsy and foolish. Every instinct in Vuron's mind wanted the boy in his lap, wanted to be thrusting deep into his waiting ass, biting and taking and... there was nothing but need.

A great emptiness in his body where he lacked what even pathetic little Rellig had.

Rellig's memories swam up, expressing the release his brother had found in his body with fighting. Claiming Vuron in insanity of the blood as he beat the boy until his body became exhausted. Some release there, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

Finally, as the blood fever built up to the point where he nearly could not stand it anymore, Vuron found the boy curled up with him in the sand. Back to Vuron's belly.

Gentle caresses of the hands brought the lust up. He pulled Vuron's hand to his face, his mind blissfully open and inviting to his young, artless intrusions. Welcoming him, opening up to him, like a rare flower opening to the sun.

One hand cupping Vuron's, the other smoothing down his chest, down his stomach. Vuron's mind fought for a moment, but there had been a sureness. An idea.

For one blissful moment, Rellig had opened his mind enough that Vuron couldn't quite tell who's hand belonged to whom. Instead of strong corded muscles from years of battle training, he had a soft body. Small, and a little pallid. Shoulders hunched in pain from a young life filled with being hunched over kneading clay, pounding it, slamming it into the wheel and pulling up utilitarian cup after bowl after platter after pitcher.

Vuron nearly pulled out, mentally, as Rellig's hand finally cupped the swollen mound between his legs.

_Stay_, he whispered. _This is yours. I am yours._

And he was. And so was his body.

Vuron felt his hand finally cup his public mount. His strong, calloused thumb and bitten fingernail scraping against the slit there. Thick, oily lubrication slicked his fingers as he separated the oversensitive folds of skin. Rellig's erection, _his_ erection, pressed painfully against the taunt skin, until he stretched the slit up enough to release the aching member.

Vuron and Rellig panted as one as, their minds intertwined, they pumped away. Squeezing at the base, tracing the veins, exquisitely sensitive fingers rippling over the double ridge at the tip.

Rellig's mind screamed for haste. Vuron pushed faster.

The boy had never had the luxury of waiting. Habit kept him quiet, his motions quick and fast so no one would find him doing _that_. Vuron's boiling blood wouldn't have let him slow anyway.

When they came, they screamed as one. Two voices sharing the tension, the release. The sticky fingers and shaking arm.

Vuron forced the boy's hand up with his mind, sucking the fluid from his fingertips. Curiosity, he supposed.

Rellig sighed in contentment. His barriers didn't go up immediately, but Vuron could feel the need for privacy.

Finally, his blood didn't hurt. His mind didn't crave more.

He pulled his hand away from Rellig's face, carefully putting up his own mental barriers.

That much intimacy had been... disconcerting.

"Thank you," Vuron said, once his breath calmed enough for normal speech. "You have given me a great gift."

"I did what I could to keep my brother alive."

And there it had been. No real bond. Just... protection.

Later, Vuron had researched, and found a human idea. Stockholm Syndrome. A lifetime of hatred and beatings had instilled a perverse loyalty. A loyalty that both frightened and disgusted Vuron.

They hadn't spoken since then.

Rellig had gone to the clinic to be treated with his brother.

Vuron had returned to his duties with a new understanding of how the Vulcan people subverted emotions, and what harm it could do. His research stepped up a pace. Different cultures. Different ways of dealing with all of this... madness.

If he'd discovered this when he was younger, he might had turned to xenopsychology. As it was, action called him more.

Occasionally, there had been a tug on their bond.

There, and not there. Always with him, and never. Occasionally he offered mental support, or a push when he could. Sometimes he hoped he could help the boy, no, a young man really, leave that terrible household.

It never failed to end in disaster. Sellik always seemed to feel Vuron's presence. Vuron could feel the ache of broken bones after.

Sometimes he had feared what the next _pon farr_ would bring. Now... he didn't need to. They were both gone. Completely.


	7. Distracted

"You are distracted."

Vuron smoothly slung the bat'leth over his shoulder in a large, ornate sweep. He brought it down quickly, flipping it back up, point into the belly of Master Chijqa.

"Not distracted enough, it seems." The Klingon grinned.

Their blades flashed back and forth with the comfort of camaraderie. Of skills very equal to one another, even if Chijqa boasted years more experience.

"I hear you made quite the scene, in the council," the master continued. Vuron felt his eyes tightened into nearly a smile. The man enjoyed trying to get his ire up. At first Vuron's seeming-calm had infuriated the man, but now it was an interesting challenge between the two of them. Who could incense the other to the point of distraction first? Often times, Vuron had the man laughing until he had to set down his weapon. Whether Vuron intended the hilarity might be another matter.

"The rumor is, your Ambassador is trying to send you out in an short-range evac shuttle for the next galaxy."

Vuron sighed.

"Close enough sentiment, considering."

Over the nine months, and ten days he'd been studying under this battlemaster, many of his self-imposed shields came down. There was only so many bruises one could give another man without some sort of companionship to develop. Or they ended up killing one-another.

Chijqa took him through a few more forms, sensing that the Vulcan needed to concentrate on something other than his superior.

Once sweat pored down their faces, into their simple practice garments, Chijqa called an end.

"You haven't come in several days," the Klingon said simply.

Vuron felt his eyebrows fly up, until he retranslated in his mind. "Come to practice?"

The battlemaster grinned toothily. "Of course. And you look greener than usual. How much of the rumors are to be believed?"

Vuron sighed. He set his weapon on its rack on the wall – the Ambassador forbid his practice weapons in the house – and sat down in a heap. Weariness from a weeks worth of lack of sleep dragged at him.

Chijqa crouched next to him, using the tip of his own weapon in the dirt to balance. His warm chocolate eyes captured Vulcan black ones.

Klingon openness and demands for truth pushed at Vulcan sensibilities for logic and privacy.

"You know of my planet." Chijqa rolled his eyes. "There are times when a Vulcan must return home, for certain rites of passage." Close enough to the truth, without telling too much. "Without a home, we are..." He sighed.

"Lost?"

The Vulcan lifted a shoulder in a minute shrug. "It will do."

"You are close to a rite, then. This is why you are agitated?"

He nodded.

His battlemaster frowned. "It is not honorable for the council to keep you from your rites. Do they know about it?"

"We are a private people about such," Vuron answered, feeling a bit queasy for saying this much.

The big klingon huffed and stood. "I will speak with Mistress Bel'tath. She can put pressure on the council. Peace talks have waited this long, they can wait a little longer."

"Chijqa, it is not as simple as that."

He cursed elegantly. "Of course it is."

"I am the lowest member of the house," Vuron grumbled. "Lower than the cook. The Ambassador will not agree to leave the planet for my wellbeing."

The battlemaster laughed. "The man in charge of security for a Vulcan Ambassador holds the lowest rank?"

"I am expendable."

A myriad of expressive emotions flickered across the Klingon's face. A burble of a familiar burn crept up in his blood. Whispers of _fight, Fight, FIGHT!_ Echoed through his mind. _Fight for life. Fight for something! Don't let yourself simply _die_!_

Vuron covered his face with a hand. It didn't hurt yet. But it would. And soon.

And soon, no amount of meditation, or meditative exercise, would help.

"What is this rite? Can we preform it here?"

_YES! Fight!_

Vuron uncovered his eyes. Anger and resolve boiled in the battlemaster's eyes.

Anger. The first _pon farr_ held the most difficulty. He _had_ regained much control after nearly killing Sellik...

"Perhaps."

_ Kill. To kill. I kill. You kill. He kills. We kill. You (pl.) kill. They kill._

"Is there a way to explain this need, that allows for _Vulcan privacy_?" Chijqa spat the words.

_Will kill. Killing. Have killed. Having had been killed. _

_Will that passion be enough?_

"I need to go hunting."

The familiar wide grin split his face. "Hunting? That is all?"

Vuron squirmed inwardly. "Vulcans are vegetarians."

Chijqa laughed heartily. "Say no more, my friend. Begin your preparations. I will speak with Mistress Bel'tath. We have familiar hunting grounds far away you can use. Very private. Go do your meditations. This time tomorrow you can bathe in the blood of a targ in privacy."

Vuron regained his feet and bowed to the man.

He wasn't sure it would work. Not entirely. But a chance was better than none.


	8. A Vulcan's Honor

A/N: Sorry for missing my Friday(ish) update folks. Gotta love living on a mountaintop with no internet. Two chapters for you!

* * *

In reality, it'd taken three days to come to an agreement to send Vuron away.

Sranak had been disgusted, baffled, angered enough for his eyebrows to draw nearly together, when Councilwoman Bel'tath had called in his security man in without his permission. Had assumed that Vuron had said far too much to the battlemaster. Disputed even allowing him the dignity of walking into the woods to die by himself.

By that third day of arguing, with Vuron standing to the left of the big table for the entire day, he had turned to hallucinations. Eyes closed. Knees locked. He swayed slightly trying to keep upright. Tried to ignore the screaming voices.

"You dishonor yourself with the treatment of this man," the Councilwoman. "You do not let him take my offer. Your healer does not treat him."

"The council requests his presence while we discuss your offer. If you did not request him, he would be at our house, doing the same."

"So, he would silently suffer by himself at home too? Why do you not accept our offer!"

"We are not asking for an explanation," another gruff voice swam up. "Only just let your damn Vulcan pride down a moment and accept it. A fine warrior shouldn't be lost for a simple-"

"Let me die," Vuron said calmly.

The room fell silent. All eyes on him. It'd taken him hours of repeating it for them to listen. Maybe he'd only been saying it in his head? He groaned.

"I will die soon. Let me die with honor."

This caused more arguments. A Vulcan begging for his last honor? Did Vulcans have honor? Was it the Council's responsibility to see to this honor, when not even his Ambassador seemed to respect the request?

Vuron didn't know when he finally collapsed. Only when Chijqa's face swam in from the darkness.

He shook the Vulcan awake, slipping some bloodwine between his lips. Vuron coughed it up.

"Where am I?"

"I dragged you off. They're still arguing. That Sranak doesn't like you much."

"Liking me, or not liking me, would be illogical."

"Hmph. Hating a Vulcan for being skilled in fighting. For a man wanting protecting on Qo'noS, he treats you strangely."

Vuron reached for the goblet of bloodwine and took a long drag. Chijqa required the drinking of it during some practice sessions, and Vuron felt a strong craving for it right now.

"You _will_ die soon, won't you." Vuron handed back the empty goblet. "I've never seen you drink more than a sip or two to humor me."

The alcohol smoothed a few of his frazzled nerves. For a moment he considered experimenting with more of it. A large portion of the _pon farr_ problem was adrenaline. The sex hormones could be controlled, or channeled, but the drive... well, the amount of drink needed to cancel everything would leave him just as dead. His metabolism simply burned through too much of it before its effects would accumulate enough to be of use.

Vuron didn't answer his battlemaster. The Klingon sighed.

"So be it. Come on."

He shoved a shoulder under Vuron's arm and bodily lifted him. Only the layer upon layer of Vulcan ceremonial wool and Klingon fur, leather, and metal kept his mind from reaching through his touch telepathy and into...

"Where are you taking me?"

"Bel'tath has had one of her shuttles ready to take you to our House's hunting grounds for three days now. I'm sure the pilot will be glad to not be stuck here while they argue."

"Chijqa..."

"Shut up, Vulcan, and take some help for a change. Do what needs to be done. I'll probably get most of the flack from stealing you in the first place. Damn it, but you are my best student and I won't let politics kill you."

Vuron protested the aid and forced himself upright. Chijqa led the way, understanding the need to make his own way, if not the way that the closeness of another's skin built up the flame in his blood.

The battlemaster led the way down a series of long, convoluted corridors. Familiar pain built up in Vuron's hands and feet with each passing movement.

When he'd been still in the council chamber, he could focus on ignoring all the little pains. Now, everything felt too sensitive. Too painful. Too... empty and needy. The scarred muscles in his chest tightened spasmodically by the time they finally came to the shuttle docking bay.

The battlemaster led them to a secure area. No one stopped the big man in his armor.

He slammed a fist on the door of a small shuttle. Built for speed. Good.

The door opened. A gruff, one-eyed pilot glared over his shoulder at them.

_Should I be concerned about lack of depth perception?_ He wondered, then nearly laughed. _No. I'm going to die anyway. Does it matter if its from a cocked-up landing, or from my own body ripping my mind apart? It might be easier this way._

Chijqa put a staying hand on his shoulder.

"Your weapons," he nodded to a rack. Vuron hadn't noticed them. "Sharpened and oiled. My old armor is in that bunk." He flipped a fold of silk from the edge of Vuron's collar. "This will offer you no protection."

The image of the gruff Klingon wavered slightly. Vuron blinked several times to dislodge whatever irritated the membranes of his inner eyelid.

The Klingon gave him a friendly shove. "Qapla'!"

Vuron allowed himself a small smile. Most likely the last time he'd see Chijqa, might as well. "Qapla' my friend. And thank you."

The battlemaster's eyebrow shot up in a good approximation of Vulcan expression.

"Get on. Finish your rites."

He turned and walked away.

For one insane moment, Vuron's hands itched to grab hold of the man's armor. Drag him back in. Take the strong man out into the woods and-

He slammed the shuttle's hatch shut.

"Ready."


	9. Bloodfever

A/N: Did I say two chapters? Let's make it three. This one is painfully short. When I sat down to write this chapter, I wanted to concentrate on his torment a bit - call it an exercise in descriptive writing - but I just got too excited about the next chapter instead. At some point I might come back and rewrite this chapter, but for now, I'll leave it be and get back to the next one, so you can get to the real fun.

* * *

Vuron attempted to meditate for the half-day's journey to the House of Bel'tath's land.

Every time he attempted to find the cold, calm center of the storm, he found himself back in the nightmare of previous minds. Previous fights.

The pilot snarled at him to disembark while he hovered. Apparently he didn't want to land in a snowbound jungle.

Vuron shivered once he landed. He settled into the brush; thrusters whipped air around him as the pilot disappeared again. For a long moment, the cold and the snow wiped out everything else in his mind. Bone searing cold. Lips ached. Needles pricked eyes.

He shrugged deeper into the borrowed furs, leather, and metal. He tugged up the fur lined hood, grateful he wouldn't loose his ears to the wind before he lost his sanity. Vuron even found fur lined gloves in one of the many deep pockets. _ Damn that Chijqa. He thought of everything._

While the cold still bore a hole of sanity, he swung his bat'leth over his shoulder and chose a direction to start walking.

The respite lasted in the halflifes.

Vuron let his conscious mind fall away. Out here, in the wilds, he had no need to fight it any longer. He ran. He struck out. He _fought._

His blood sung with it. He existed for the blood on his blade. For the profound pain within his own minds eye.

Hours... Days...


	10. Targs and Spies

A sharp pain in his cheek started hallow echoes throughout his skull.

"Wake up, you yellow bellied _targ!_"

After so long without... even attempting... control.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him.

"Wake up, you dirty _spy_! Wake up and tell me who you work for! Who sent you to kill me and my disciples!"

_Disciples._

The civilized word burrowed down through the heat in his blood. The burning. The fire. The need to kill. To feel hot, pulsing blood gushing around his teeth.

Vuron's eyes cracked open.

Inside now. Surely Chijqa hadn't sent him someplace settled. Had to be another hallucination.

"Chijqa? Master Chijqa sent you?"

Vuron groaned. Had he said the name out loud?

Such great weakness. Everything hurt.

With improbable effort, he lifted his hands, palm up, so he could look at them. Coated in red blood. Knuckles crisscrossed in green cuts.

"Why would the master send you to kill us? Is this some plot of Bel'tath's? Or a bid for power from one of the other Houses? Tell me, you bastard!"

Bel'tath lands. Chijqa. Vuron had assumed he'd been sent into uninhabited lands. What if... what if they'd sent him into take care of some... some Klingon diplomatic problem. Or worse, Vuron slaughtered a slew of loyal innocents.

How far had he traveled? In his bloodlust?

The dark room offered no answers. Firelight flicked over old wood. Ceiling so high it was lost in the shadows.

The face... the face that swam over him could never be called beautiful. Subtle ridges on her forehead were prominent... asymmetrical from old wounds. Splatted in red and green blood, like Vuron's hands. Tousled hair, long and snarled away from what once must have been a neat knot at the back of the neck. Thick padded leather practice armor.

Disciples. Marster Chijqa.

Vuron's hand met the strange Klingon's mid-swipe. The woman snarled at him, demanding again. Vuron didn't even have the energy to articulate... but...

The Vulcan _pushed, _blinded with need, rather than expectation of succe-

_ Mistress J'Mara, a minor Lady within the House of Bel'tath, but a lady in her own right. Proud. A teacher. Standing before her students. Taking them through their morning ablutions. _

_ A boom echoed through the temple. All eyes turned to the open doors. Silhouetted by the blizzard behind him, a warrior in old battle armor. Hood shoved back. Bloodied blade in hand._

_ Many warriors came here for respite. For practice. For training. For healing. This one, though. This one came to kill._

_ Her protegees gathered before her. Ready to protect. Be be the bastion of Klingon flesh, to keep the pillar of their art intact._

_ J'Mara laughed at their posturing._

_ "Go, children. I will take care of this one."_

_ "Mistress," they called. Poor things. Still scared of their own shadows. Only a few steps on their journeys to make great warriors of themselves._

_ "If I can not take care of one man, then I have no right to be your Mistress. Go. Return when his head is mounted on a pike out front."_

_ The warrior's head turned as they moved. When he challenged, bat'leth raised in an all too familiar posture, J'mara grinned. _

_ She shouted, picking up her own weapon from her ceremonial stand. His head swiveled around. Sighting her. Stalking her._

_ She stalked him in return, circling around the room until she could slam the door shut. No use fighting in the cold when she didn't have to. _

_ J'Mara eyed the stranger. Coated in blood, new and old. Whipmarks across the face, from the vines and branches in the woods. Deep welted bruises on jaw and throat. Green blood welling up. Delicately curved ears and smooth face, framed by dark-as-night hair._

_ "Vulcan. What are you doing here. Why do you challenge a Mistress of the art of battle?"_

_ The bat'leth swing did not take her by surprise. She side-stepped it quickly, and threw up her own to guard from the second strike. _

_ "What the hell, Vulcan?"_

_ Again he attacked, throwing in so much force he nearly shoved her off balance, before making a mad dash towards the door her students so recently vacated. J'Mara snarled and got in his way._

_ Again and again he made to hunt down her students. His body strong. His eyes strangely glazed. Inarticulate growls and snarls escaped the alien. _

_ J'Mara had never met a Vulcans who fought, let alone fought with such ferocity, such demand. She could feel the blood singing in his veins with the hunt. Occasionally, their skin would graze, as their blades cut more and more from each other. She felt the irrationality, the burning need unlike none she'd ever known, flowing within him._

_ She quickly realized, with each blocked stroke, every deflected slice, that there would be no beating this one. His anger, his stamina, his training, too close to her own. Whenever she delved into her creative mind, a new spin she had yet to try with her more accomplished students, a kick that couldn't be blocked, this lithe Vulcan would jump, or twist, or catch._

_ Through the churning snow past the windows, the sky darkened, turned black, only reflecting the light from the fires within. Then the fires died out._

_ Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Ragged breath in her ears. Only the grit in the ground from his light steps betrayed him. The occasional splat of blood on the wooden floor._

_ Dawn came again. _

_ The Vulcan had not slowed. Cold crept up through the floor. Through the walls. Sweat drenched her neck, her back. The Vulcan threw off his vestments piece by piece. Inner fire making him nearly glow green. She could feel his heat a step away from him. Fever heat. Deep sickness of the mind and body._

_ On the second day he began to drop. He would lift the bat'leth to block, and end up on his knees from the force. _

_ J'Mara panted from the strength of it herself. She had never trained for battle like this. Unending. Unrelenting. Past _Stamina_ and into _Soul_. Past the challenge of the assassin, and onto personal challenge._

_ If she could not out fight someone so evenly matched, what right had she to-_

_ And then, he gave._

_ The Vulcan did not relent, just, fell. He blocked a blow from the ground, shook, and simply collapsed in on himself. _

Vuron pulled his mind away and let himself collapse back down on the floor. The weakness now made sense. Still in the throws of _pon farr_, but battle exhausted. His plan had worked... to some extent.

Relief at not having killed all of Bel'tath's people flooded him.

Exhaustion. Pure, blessed exhaustion. His blood still burned, but his reserves were nearly depleted. Not much left.

The Klingon, _J'Mara _his nearly deficient mind supplied, eyed him warily. He let his eyes droop closed again.

He'd been completely blacked-out when he'd found this temple; his subconscious driving him solely by need. The fact that the female had been able to equal him at the height of his madness was... impressive, to say the least.

"What was that?" she asked. Her voice lost all of her previous anger. "Tell me, Vuron!"

Her hands fisted in his remaining clothing, lifting his slack form off of the ground.

Even in his utter lack, he felt his eyebrow twitch. Curious. A Klingon sensitive to touch-telepathy.

She snarled and struck him with a solid punch to the jaw.

His head slumped to the side. Again and again she delivered blows to his limp body. Flares of need licked him with each contact.

Weakly, he lifted a hand, catching that powerful fist before it shattered his eye socket. Her hand stilled over the bloody appendage. Expecting, wanting that joining. Vuron felt her need echoing his own.

Rotating his wrist took a monumental effort. Slowly curling two of his fingers to stroke two of her own. Eyes still shut, he tried to remember how he'd seen more _affectionate_ couples share gentle joinings in such a manner. Mingled blood slid between their fingertips. Her knuckles gentle ripples under the sensitive tips.

_Rellig._ The old pain blossomed. _Learn from the past_. Open, instead of shut. Invite, instead of intrude.

Opening that door, tearing down that last barrier... he felt the _pon farr_ beast howling at that door as well.

Gentle fingers stroked back along his. The touch tentative.

"This is how Vulcans show affection." Not exactly a question. And the breathiness of her statement nearly pulled a groan from his lips. "Why do I know this, Vuron? Why do I know your name?"

No clear thoughts perhaps... but then how did she collect his name?

He groaned in need. His fingers clenching around the Klingon's.

"You are..." He felt the ridges of J'Mara's forehead touch his shoulder. Press against him. "You are prepared for death, and yet I feel..." He felt her growl through his whole body, down to his very fingertips, and whispering through his mind. "It would be illogical for you to fight _so_ hard, only to give up now."

Vuron felt a smile touch his lips.

J'Mara had spoken the last in _his_ native tongue, rather than hers.

"I could give you an honorable death," she offered against his chest.

But, she didn't want to. She'd enjoyed chipping her steel against his. Enjoyed feeling the flame in his blood.

"The more we touch, Vulcan, the more my blood burns." Hot breath on his throat now. Sharp teeth and moist lips grazing his skin as she spoke. Her fingers stroking his, drawing an exhausted little shudder down his spine. "But I like this burn, little Vulcan. I don't run from it. Don't fight it."

_Don't fight it._ _Don't fight it. Don't. Fight._

J'Mara's voice echoed in his mind. Not an order, like the one betrothed to that scared little girl, or a plea, like the one who ended up on the other end of two abusive bonds.

No, an equal. An equal who's blood burned just as brightly.

The welcoming of that burn frightened him. No Vulcan welcomed the _pon farr._ Insanity to think it.

J'Mara grinned. Vuron felt the grin as though it were pulling at his own lips.

"Touch-telepathy, hm?" the klingon asked, again using the Vulcan words. Vuron did not have the words for the phenomena in Klingon. "Tell me there is more."

Her teeth caught his lower lip, her free hand caressing the side of his face. The need suddenly came back in full force. By Kahless, if only she were Vulcan. Those fingers stroked right over the spot. Vuron panted, his lip still captured, fingers clenching against J'Mara's hand. Enflamed.

"My... hand..." he forced out.

She captured it, kissing and nibbling on his palm. He'd never had someone touch him so intimately before. Never had someone want to try.

Even with only the echo of a connection between them, J'Mara slipped into his mind, plucking out these cravings. Teasing out how little nibbles, plucking his skin away from the muscle felt, compared to a deeper bite, taking all of the muscle at the base of his thumb. Her rough tongue laved every crack and crevice, cleaning him of their mingled blood, tracing every curve of each of his nails.

"Your blood urges me," she growled. "The shadow of what I feel of your hands is astounding. Show me."

Vuron guided, pushing her. He had no energy to hold his own hand up now. Too far gone. She kissed his palm one last time, lips an exquisite balm, before, edging his fingers into the right places.

_Your mind to my mind..._

"Your thoughts, to my thoughts," J'Mara whispered along with his mind.

This time, this meld, felt so much different. So. Damn. Right.

No fight. No submission. Just welcome, honest, _lust._

The animalistic lust in his own mind twinned up and pored through her.

_You are so frightened of your passion._

_ You do not think you will survive?_

_ There is so much-_

_ Why didn't you come sooner-_

_ Why not give in sooner-_

_ How do I-_

_ There must be some way-_

_ I want your steel against-_

_ Take me-_

_ Fuck me-_

_ Suck me-_

Vuron panted against the sudden onslaught. J'Mara's sudden need.

_What is _pon farr_?_

_ Ah, the real question._

Before Vuron could gather himself to explain, the Klingon barged into his memories, pulling out all of those terrible memories, those years of half-loneliness. The place where helpmeet, mate, friend, lover stood empty. And now finally empty enough, in truth, to be filled.

_I can not complete-_

J'Mara laughed. Her hips ground down on his.

"You damn Vulcans," she growled. _So uninventive. Uncreative,_ she thought instead.

Slips of memories tickled at him, playfully. Warriors wounded in battle, in interesting ways. Some who would return to battle until they died with honor. Others, others with metaphorical balls, if not real ones at times, who found other ways to make it work. Shieldmates of the same gender that did the same.

A multitude of bodies passed before his mindseye. Different permutations. Combinations. Gyrations.

"We mate for life," Vuron fought to say out loud. Important enough that he had to. "We will be bonded until death."

The strength of her mind pressed his once more, exploring the bond he'd held with Rellig, the expectation of solitude for the rest of his years. Two centuries alone. Perhaps more. And of viewing other's bonds. As an outsider.

"It is simple then. If I get tired of such a strong sparring partner, I shall just kill you in battle."

_How can you just accept-_

J'Mara bit him again, hard.

Vuron saw their fight again through her eyes. The graceful sweep of his weapon, even while exhausted and half crazed. The strange gymnastics that he realized he'd incorporated from his years studying on Earth. On Andoria. The way his thumb stroked the leather wrappings of his handle. The careful tilt of his ankle to keep his balance, but not give away the next strike. The very taste of his blood.

_I know enough. Your first mate knew less of you._

That acceptance caused a strange click in Vuron's mind. In J'Mara's mind.

Vuron breathed a laugh of relief.

The adrenaline, the drive, dematerialized. Snow in the wind. There and gone.

J'Mara's fingers gave his a little squeeze before releasing his grip. She settled her forehead against his, to keep their meld connected while she reached between them, quickly unfastening buckles and latches, spreading as much of their armor as she could reach, so that she could press her bare, ample breasts against his flat chest.

Her fingertips grazed the scars there, a promise to discover them in more detail later, before trailing down to his pubic mound.

A multitude of trepidations swam to the surface as she cupped his lack. She squeezed hard. _No lack. A challenge. To be conquered._

_But for now-_ she separated his folds, expertly finding the miniscule counterpart to the Vulcan's male organ. Its sensitivity pleased her. She craved to taste him. She wanted to suck him off, jerk him off, bite him, devour him.

_Jerk me off?_

_Just wait. We'll get there._

For now... for now they both felt the deep seated need for simple release. Too bone-weary for foreplay, for the invigorating fuck that J'Mara craved. That Vuron craved.

J'Mara's thumb flicked back and forth. Her fingers slid up and down, delving into his lubrication, bringing it back up to the nub at the apex to squeeze, rub, tug. Slowly, painfully, tormentingly slowly, she built up pressure. Pressure with her hands. Pressure with her mind. Drawing him up and out as she wiggled her way deeper into him.

Until, _Oh Kahless_, her fingers curled around Vuron's public bone. Deep within him, she'd found some wonderfully sensitive pressure point. Some point that had him gasping and writhing up against her body.

J'Mara's mind followed him crashing over the cliff. Her teeth caught up his neck, muffling her screams as he came. Her fingers spasmodically clenching deep within him.

As their breathing slowed in time, their heartbeats calming as one heart, Vuron felt the inevitable pull of sleep tugging at his mind.

_Men. The same in all species._

Vuron offered a mental caress, an apology for the abrupt drop of the meld before his hand fell away.

What really surprised him, however, was the presence he still felt in his mind. Be it all the skin contact that remained, between her hand and their bare torsos, or just a lingering connection.

"A connection remained between you and that coward Rellig," she murmured into his ear. "Why does this surprise you?"

_Ah. Because I am Klingon._

Vuron felt a flare of anger. Healthy, normal anger.

It felt... good.

Righteous.


	11. Gifts

J'Mara insisted on several days rest. Time to recuperate. Time to become used to one another's patterns.

Vuron felt himself in a state of continual discovery. He would be lifting a bowl of broth to his lips, only to suddenly find himself, his mind, across the table from him, staring at a familiar Vulcan in Klingon armor, metal bowl held between taunt fingers, while his teeth tore into the succulent red meat of an animal he'd... J'Mara had butchered shortly before.

She'd spat out a mouthful that first time.

"You will turn me vegetarian."

"Unlikely," Vuron responded, unsure how to deal with her teasing. "And I believe I have already turned omnivore. I surmise I ate... an animal... outside."

"Several. I don't think they were completely dead yet," J'Mara had said, after considering a moment. She'd grinned at his subtle Vulcan frown.

In fact, the whole while she oversaw his recuperation, she took devilish joy in getting a rise out of him. When she deemed him recovered enough to join her daily lessons, she purposefully attempted to aggravate him. Making fun of his pointy ears, pale skin, prudish ways.

She could feel the distraction in his mind, just as he knew her intention as if it were his own.

Their ritualistic flowing strokes of bat'leth continued on and on, before the somewhat amazed eyes of her disciples.

"See, how I call his mother a smooth-face, and he does not react?" She spoke with the voice of an experienced teacher.

"I thought our anger at such things brought the right energy into battle."

"Ah, but anger is a brittle thing. If not tempered, and quenched on occasion, it will chip away like an old sword and give you nothing but shards in battle."

At this her attack became aggressive. Her blood heating with her need to destroy him. Vuron blocked time and again as she swung her blade back, up and over her shoulders, and down into him. She screamed a battle cry with each blow. Staggering him mentally and physically, but his calmness, his _cool depths_ as her mind thought of him, received her anger like the river of Stovokor received each battle hardened warrior, simply accepting and swallowing up all the energy.

Their ears rang after her final blow. Her lungs burned. With a disgusted spit, she flung her blade to the ground at her students feet, so they could see how she had destroyed the edge against his guard.

"If I had been calm, or at least less angry and intent on taking this pointy eared demon's head off, I would have changed my stance. Or swung from another direction. I have seen too many good men and women loose their head in battle over some perceived insult."

_You are asking them to learn logic_, Vuron whispered along their oddly strong link. _Vulcans are taught it as children._

J'Mara growled. Frustrated and unhappy with the direction of her frustration.

"Go to the blacksmith, _children_," she ordered. "Learn to quench your steel and harden it."

They bowed and disappeared.

"An easier lesson for them to learn, I presume."

She grunted her agreement.

"You are tired."

Vuron shrugged a touch. No point arguing the truth.

"Is it normal, taking so long to recover from this _pon farr_ of yours?"

"I don't know of anyone who fought it as long as I did and survived."

"An admirable mate indeed."

"Or a foolish one."

Again she grunted.

Vuron suggested t'ai chi ch'uan, to remove vestigial stress in mind and muscles. With verbal, and mental cues, Vuron led the both of them through a couple sets, before J'Mara snorted in annoyance.

"Remove your robes. I need to see your muscles move."

Vuron felt his lips quirk a touch, but removed the practice robe that she'd provided for him. He felt her eyes roaming over the the low set of his leggins. She _enjoyed_ the line of his hipbones, the way they curved in and pointed to his groin. She even _salivated_ over all the scars that adorned his chest and stomach.

"This t'ai chi ch'uan, is a Vulcan art?" She asked, as they began to move again.

"No, a human one. Based on highly lethal attacks and defenses, but slowed so that one can work towards the perfection of the movement. A human's adrenaline would speed up any motion to what it would need to be, for the situation."

"Hm. I like the idea. Slower training would help a battlemaster see imperfections in technique as well."

While she spoke, she divested herself of her own top, stretching in a way that made the sweat glisten in the firelight.

"I am not the only one who appreciates her mate's body," she growled low.

"Indeed."

He felt the hot lick of her anger at the evenness of his voice before she pounced on him. He calmly took wrist and elbow in his hands, changing her momentum and directing it in a spiral away and down, as he'd learnt from an Aikido Sensei. Pressing her down to the wooden floor, he locked her elbow so that any struggle she made would likely dislocate the joint.

"Do not pretend you do not enjoy the teasing, as well, my _t'hy'la,_" he whispered against her throat.

Vuron slipped the hand gripping her wrist down, stroking her fingers with his own, allowing his mind to open up with the contact. Complimenting physical appearance felt... odd. Having such a warm, inviting presence in his mind felt disconcerting in an entirely different way. But showing her how he saw her, the way the light caught on her skin, the lithe sinuous grace as she dove, attacked. The strong column of her neck. Admiration at the strength in her shoulders, her arms. Appreciation of her skill with her weapons, and her skill in teaching others the same. Aesthetically pleasing in the ways he felt important.

"You have been closing me off," she nearly sighed into the floor. "Hiding something from me."

The barriers in his mind went up automatically. He released her hand, her elbow, and stood carefully.

J'Mara stretched and rolled, so she could watch him. Leaving herself in a vulnerable position. Bare stomach exposed. No weapons. Physically showing him how she mentally felt.

"I need to regain control," Vuron said. She could sense the pleading in his voice. Not even another Vulcan could hear it. "If I don't... do you want to continue to feel my revulsion when you bite into flesh? Or find yourself suddenly pulled from battle, and thrust into my body while I sip tea on New Vulcan?"

And there it was, sitting between them. His intention to leave. To return to the diplomatic party, for as long as he was needed, and then travel to New Vulcan. Join his fellows in being whatever aid they could to the colony.

"You intend to leave."

"I must."

She sagged back onto the ground. Eyes closed. One hand open in an invitation to join her.

Vuron settled against her side. His hand traced the muscles of her bare stomach, subtly counting the solid ribs, rubbing a thumb down her hipbone.

"You enjoy touching me."

"Physical contact is not an experience I have had the chance to appreciate before."

She sighed. "And your fingers are so sensitive. If I concentrate, I can feel every hair follicle." She shivered. "Are your people normally so cold? No, not temperature. I know you come from a desert. And you miss the arid winds. And turning your face towards the sunset to gather those last few rays of heat before it dips away and the temperature drops. I meant, you and Rellig. You didn't see him, except for the matings. You had no intention of seeing him until your time came again. Is that normal?"

"For some. If my duty is to my Ambassador, and his to his family's business. It is unlikely that a delegate would have use of a potter during negotiations."

J'Mara ruminated for a while, her thoughts clouded in their own way as he gently stroked her side. She caught up one of his hands so she could kiss his fingertips.

"I can not argue with you, hmm? You need to leave."

He nodded.

She lifted his hand so that she could nuzzle his palm. Feeling how his fingers felt as he stroked the ridges of her nose, the curve of her eyebrow, the coarse dips and raises of her ridges.

"Oddly cyclical thinking."

"You are the one observing my reactions to touching you."

She smiled against his palm, kissing, then nibbling on it.

"I have been hiding something from you too. Now I am not sure I want to share."

Vuron pressed his mind against hers, curious, and appreciating her need to feel worth the curiosity.

"I see something... made of bone?"

She laughed. "Perhaps I want my privacy too. Come. We feast tonight. Tomorrow, you return to your bastard Sranak."

Vuron swallowed down his disappointment. In truth, while he admitted the need to return to himself, he had purposefully not considered the when or how.

"Come, husband." She took, gripping his hands and pulling him to his feet. "No sadness in duty. We will never truly be parted."

_There, and not there. Always with him, and never._

For once, the term _husband_ left a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach. He cherished it.


	12. Finding Control

On unspoken agreement, they remained separate throughout their meal. J'Mara even seemed to test their combined resolve, eating with her hands, taking only raw meat and the strongest bloodwine. Vuron found himself watching intently. Each lick of her fingers. Every slow swallow. The delicate droplet caught in the corner of her mouth, before her dexterous tongue flicked out to collect it.

"I find I don't like this control of yours."

"I can not disagree."

Her grin warmed him. She passed him a goblet full of bloodwine.

He sighed. "I would prefer to remain sober tonight."

"You fear forgetting tonight. That will not happen."

"_T'hy'la_," Vuron admonished. "I thought we were-"

She waved a hand to dismiss his trouble.

"I will not press anymore tonight. But if you are leaving tomorrow, I want to enjoy what time we have left together."

"What do you wish to do, after we have finished eating?"

"What else?" she asked with a grin. "I want to test your steel with mine. You are recovered enough."

Vuron nodded and continued to eat his meal. If his chest felt a bit tighter, his breath perhaps a bit quicker, or the food tasteless for the haste in which he barely chewed before picking up another mouthful... well. Perhaps he had not completely recovered from the fire in his blood yet.

J'Mara finished first, kissed him on the cheek, her fingers straying along his covered arm a moment before she disappeared down the long hallway to the practice chamber.

Vuron felt... empty. The feasting hall echoed with her footsteps. The first time in days they had eaten alone, rather than with her pupils. His mind echoed with that same emptiness, but he firmed his resolve to keep their minds separate. He only had a little longer to practice. And no doubt that the moment he left, their bond would be pulled to a painful tautness. Screaming for him to return.

His fingers found the mug of bloodwine, now chilly in the cool air, and he drank deeply. A tingle of regret niggled at him for not doing so in his bondmate's presence. He sighed and stood.

Vuron's body ached. A good practice before sleep might well be just the thing. Work out the last of the pain in the muscles.

His feet took him through the long, cold hallway that skirted the edge of the practice grounds with the familiarity of years. His fingers traced old scars in the wood of the walls. For a moment, he saw not his pale hands with the neat, blunt fingernails, but deep chocolate skin, fingernails more like rough little claws. Chewed nervously while being lectured at. Vuron pulled back from the memory from a childhood not his own with great difficulty.

More than curiosity made him itch to put a little pressure to that slim tidbit. How old had J'Mara been when her fingers first explored those deep grooves? Had she trained here since she was so young? Vuron traced the mark again, comparing the size of his hand to the larger member that had held dagger and sword against him, and the small appendage he'd just seen. Truthfully, he couldn't estimate her age from that memory.

Simply not enough information.

_Are you going to join me, or not?_

The shock of her presence in his mind shook him from his contemplations.

_I am. I simply became distracted. _With a moment of concentration, he showed her the gouges in the wood, trusting that her memory would be sufficiently stimulated to figure out the rest. He only heard a rude noise on the wind.

_I am waiting. Take your pick. Come spar with me, or wallow in a bunch of useless old memories._

For all of the grump she attempted to project, he felt a faint bit of curiosity. Embarrassment. Not quite deception but-

_For the love of Kahless. Get in here, will you? _

The hint of a smile tugged at Vuron's lips, warmed his mind. Time enough for musing later.

J'Mara sat in the middle of a precise circle on the ground, sharpening one of her treasured daggers. Irritation emanated from the set of her shoulders, the bulging muscle of her jaw.

"I have angered you."

"We only have a few precious hours yet, and you spend a quarter of one of our few hours staring at a wall."

"I thought we were spending the evening separate from one another."

She huffed in frustration and stood.

"I have our weapons assembled." Vuron felt an eyebrow quirk at her declaration. "We shall take our pick freely. First one to draw blood wins."

"But ends the spar," Vuron countered. He'd had enough bloodsport for a while. She considered for a moment, then nodded.

_ An interesting stipulation, love._

Vuron sighed. _Please. I would like to practice shielding._

"Fine. But only until the end of the match. I find I enjoy your taciturn voice in the back of my head."

_If I am so _taciturn_, then you wouldn't be hearing my voice._

_Details_. She smiled. Open. Full of teeth. Challenge. Invitation. She tossed him her favorite dagger.

"If you can keep this through the night, it's yours."

"An interesting challenge, t'hy'la, but I don't see-"

Her shoulder whooshed the air out of his lungs. He twisted and rolled away. He had only a moment to retract and tuck the naked d'k tahg into the tie of his practice robes. He flipped away quickly as she raised her joined fists for another blow. In a sweeping, articulated scramble, his hands skimmed over the blades, settling on the gin'tak spear.

_At some point I'll have to show you the lirpa._

She frowned at him for breaking his own standard, before snatching up a bat'leth.

Superior reach versus greater blade surface area. The differences in leverage could be argued either way.

J'Mara grinned with a feral joy, her blade coming down upon him with a familar, determined over-head barrage, a single-minded swinging style. Strikes that, with a bat'leth in his hands, called for either with a perpendicular stopping force, or a side-deflection, or a redirection of momentum to disarm or return a blow in kind. He could do a perpendicular block twice, no once, considering her strength, before the wood of the spear failed. The curved blade at the end offered him only a diagonal deflection and rotation of momentum; the smaller surface area of the metal, and flexibility of wood, meant he required utmost precision in his ability to just where she intended the force of the strike to hit. He caught and redirected for each of her blows with the metal of his blade, systematically protecting himself from each attack in turn. Holding ground, not advancing.

Each strike became more forceful. Her eyes tensing, never breaking contact from him.

The wood gave as expected, once he finally had no choice but to block, leaving him with a baton and a cumbersome length of handle to the head of the gin'tak. He spun both, making use of the baton for defense, assuming axe-head styled attacks for the remainder of the gin'tak.

Without reach or a good blade, Vuron found himself side-stepping constantly to get out of the way of J'Mara's sweeping weapon. Rolling to escape a downward strike. Leaping to evade the odd leg sweep.

Every dodge bringing heat up in her face. Tightness in her lips. The thrusts harder. More likely to meet out injury from the force in her arms, in her torso, in her every step.

"Fight damn you!" she hissed as her metal once again only met air.

A large downward slash aimed for his head opened the position he wanted; as her leading foot stepped into his space, he sidestepped, his lead foot slipping behind her at a neat ninty-degree angle. A slick little bit of human footwork that put him deep into her personal space. So deep, he felt her shoulders flex against his chest as she made to turn.

Baton arm flipped up, locking her elbow in an extended position, a push of his hips and shoulders twisting the klingon off to the side, in time with his steps.

"_Infuriating Vulcan!_"

The column of her neck flexed before him. The subtle peaty, floral scent wafting from the thick plaid of dark hair. Vuron burrowed his nose against her, drawing in her aroma, savoring the heat from her skin.

A deep growl vibrated against his skin.

"Infuriating... Vulcan."

"You are repeating yourself, t'hy'la."

J'Mara's body flexed against him. Intent on turning in his arms. He tightened his grip on her, locking her elbows.

"That is not the challenge you set forth."

Another growl, nearly a frustrated groan, and their positions reversed. J'Mara dropped under his arms and popped back up quickly, flipping him up-and-over in front of her, slamming him on the mat, flat on his back.

Somehow his fingers has released the broken spear in the toss, sliding down her forearms and gripping the sweat-slick leather of her bat'leth.

He kicked up into her sternum before the wrestling match for the weapon could begin. Spun, gained feet, brandished the new weapon.

J'Mara hesitated a moment before dashing for her weapon's rack.

Vuron made a calculated risk, held his ground, giving her the time she needed. He flicked her bat'leth up and down, examining the way her weapon's weight felt in his hand. Heavier in the blade edge. The handles smaller, a bit more cylindrical. Made the little upper-cut flip she favored faster. Less controlled than he'd prefer.

A flash of metal brought his attention back up just in time for him to catch his weapon with hers. Or vis-versa.

She grinned at him over his bat'leth.

"An interesting choice."

"You took mine, it only seemed _logical_," she spat out the Vulcan word quickly. The swing she offered him slow, the arch wide. He deflected comfortably enough, until the end of the arc. The edge of the blade skittered away from him as the superior momentum of her weapon exceeded his expectation of the movement.

Vuron barely avoided having his knuckles sliced clean through.

With a huff of frustration he gripped tighter into the leather. Metal flashed back and forth, the footing equally awkward, he realized, as J'Mara fought with his heavier, slower balanced blade.

Again and again they flicked back and forth, Vuron doing his best to control every move and twist from the elbows down while still keeping torso, legs, feet fluid enough to avoid J'Mara's every assault.

"You never attack," she grumbled. A fine film of sweat gleamed on her skin.

"The attack is not everything," Vuron counters as he redirected yet another attack, changing her momentum so that it slipped around him harmlessly. "The attacker's momentum can be taken," he caught her blade against his own. "Redirected," he demonstrated with a deft twist of his hips. "Repurposed." A flick of his wrist and he'd locked the tines of his bat'leth with hers. A hard twist dislodged it completely. He released his borrowed bat'leth to follow his into the shadows of the hall. The metal sliding along the cold dirt noisily.

"You," she snarled, snatching up the head of the spear, a quick snap breaking off the remainder of the wood so she could hold it like a dagger. "Are infuriatingly calm."

Vuron felt a touch of amusement behind her frustration.

"Did you not already speak to your students about that exasperation?"

He slipped out of her way once again. With open hands, he found he could move with similar steps. Grapple as he needed to. Take his enjoyment from the occasional touches of skin on skin as they sparred.

Take his enjoyment from seeing the minute shivers along her body as she responded to his touch.

His fingers tugged at her belt. He reveled in her surprised smile. The blush of her skin at the sight of her bare chest.

"You might be cheating," she all but purred.

"You are doing the same," Vuron replied, as her fingers caressed the back of his hands, distracting him from a shoulder lock. She slipped completely from her robe, letting more of their skin graze as they exchanged punches, grabs, pins.

Every touch of their skin, Vuron felt his internal walls crumbling. A warm tide rising from J'Mara's skin. Banishing away the chill of the winter air.

A dull echo of the ponfarr fire sent a shiver of... nervous anticipation? Worry? Anxiety? Any and all, truly it didn't matter.

The moment it was there, another caress of hot skin both flared it up and soothed it down.

_She_ originated that heat in him. A whisper of his mind wanted to explore the heat – did it come from her? Or perhaps more worrisome, did her alien genetics call up the the heat in his blood again? – but as the tide rolled away to a manageable desire, he found the fear of the emotion seep away.

J'Mara's grip turned to caresses. The fingers tight, possessive on the back of his neck. Gentle on the sensitive fingers of his dominant hand. Teeth nipping at his jaw, close to his ear. The panting of her breath, the rush of her blood, roared through him.

Distracted enough that she didn't notice him reach under his belt for the d'k tahg she'd sharpened earlier. His thumb flicked the switch. The secondary blades snapped open, slicing both of their stomachs.

J'Mara glanced down, a particular expression crossing her eyes a moment, before she collapsed on top of him in a fit of laughter.

His shields came down at the flood of her emotions.

"You had that planned the entire time." Her smile took out any sting from the comment.

"It was a possibility."

Her fingers gently caressed the shallow gouge in his skin, bringing the green blood to her lips.

"Not all battles can end so... neatly."

"No, but a spar between bondmates can." He stepped closer to her, tucking his nose against her temple, drawing in her scent again. Riding the tide of her uncontrolled emotions with nothing more but the feel of her fingers holding his to anchor him. "I will treasure this memory. As I treasure you."

She met his gaze, unfocused with their closeness.

"That is the closest you have come to saying you love me."

Vuron's shoulders tightened a moment, but he forcefully released the tension. With none of his own species in the room, none to ostracize him for his differences, to judge him for his occasional slip from the ways of Surak...

"Even knowing you only a few days, I am more fond of your presence than any I have known in my lifetime. I am not ashamed to say that I am continually surprised – no, amazed – that I would find such a compatible mind."

"Let alone in the mind of a Klingon?"

Vuron flinched at the bite he felt through their link.

"Regardless of species. Do you not... hesitate, at the thought of being connected to me for the rest of your life? An emotionless, smooth-faced, pointy eared, pale, prudish-"

Her fingers on his lips stayed his train of thought.

"My people are not so," she struggled for a word, finding "_isolationist_," in his mind, again in Vulcan, before continuing. "Perhaps some are," she corrected herself with a chuckle. "But if one has honor, proves themselves in battle, then that is enough. I see into the very heart of you, through this bond of yours.

"A wise, old master I knew," she continued, her thoughts drifting. "Often said that the heart will go where it wants to. One can follow it, and deal with the consequences, or one can tear it out and feel nothing. Those gouges in the wall, were from his mate. They fought terribly. Every day. Weapons crumbled, bones broke, under their wrath at one another. I questioned him about it, when I got old enough to understand. Why not just leave? Or kill her in honorable combat?"

Her fingers trailed down to where his robe had slipped from its belt. Tentatively stroking along old scar tissue.

"And?"

"He said, she carried his heart. If he left, or killed her, he would die without it."

"A romanticized view of the world."

"Klingon poetry is the most beautiful in the universe," she countered, with a jab to his ribs. "Of course we would be a romantic. Ah well. Once I was old enough to see that their fights simply kindled their passions into a bonfire, rather than a cookflame, I understood."

A little flicker of amusement passed between them.

"This is why you wanted to challenge me to a spar."

J'Mara grinned. "And it worked, did it not?"

He hummed in response, nipping her cheek gently between his even, flat teeth.

Her fingers slid down his smooth, hairless stomach to the belt, undoing it and sliding off the robe.

Vuron shivered at the temperature differential between her hot hands and the cool air.

"Does your species only mate during this blood fever of yours?"

He shook his head, amazed that she hadn't delved into that secret like she had so much else.

"Not honorable, when there is so much shame surrounding it," she replied, pressing her bare chest against his, offering her warmth.

"We mate outside the _pon farr,_" Vuron offered. Felt her curiosity. His cheeks heating with it. They'd skimmed the condition before, but... she deserved to know. And it would be easier to speak of such things here. "Once every seven years, the fever takes us with a strength we can not control or deny. We must return home, and take our mate. It is not unusual to be in its grips for two weeks."

"Two weeks?" J'Mara pulled away a bit to meet his gaze straight on. Pulled away mentally as well, so he could only guess at her thoughts in her suddenly expressionless face. "You were in that fever, in the blizzard, for two weeks?"

He nodded. He'd accessed one of her few computer terminals to gather some data the day before.

"Fifteen days. It is... unusual that I would survive that long."

"No wonder you were as weak as a kitten when you burst through my door."

He felt an eyebrow lift at that, subtly tugging at the strings of her barrier, plucking at the memory she'd shared with him, of fighting for two days without pause.

"Vulcans have great stamina."

Her eyebrows shot down, then up.

"Wait. You are saying... they take their mate, for two weeks, with great stamina."

His cheeks flushed.

"That would be the typical response to the _pon farr_."

Her grin, her arms wrapped tightly around him, warmed him.

"Seven years to wait, hm?"

"As I said," he stated calmly, clearly, wanting to whisper but not in deference to Klingon etiquette. "We do mate outside of the fever."

The mental distance she'd been holding slipped away again. Their temples pressed against once another as they embraced. Vuron not looking forward to his next Time, but for once, not fearing it either.


	13. Becoming Comfortable

A/N: As you might have guessed, things have been uh... been driving towards a specific destination. If you don't wanna read about a Vulcan transdude getting it on, I'd recommend finding another fic at this point. 'Cause its gonna happen. Long chapter. Should have waited for the "usual Friday" update, but I got to internet early this week and jumped the gun a bit. Happens to the best of us ;-)

* * *

J'Mara acquiesced to Vuron's need for privacy; they returned to her rooms.

Vuron appreciated the utilitarian appeal of her aesthetics. Weapons displayed within easy reach. Clothing stored in a simple, iron bound chest. Thick, winter furs tacked against exterior walls and covering the floors to battle back the chill. The first night she'd carried him back to her private quarters, she'd assembled a rough pallet for the two of them. Simple, just several layers of more fur and a couple coarse woven tapestries.

That first night, she'd stripped his body, bathed him with a cloth from a dish of water heated over the open fire. They hadn't spoken then. Awkwardness and embarrassment from both echoing back and forth. Uncomfortable with the novelty of being within one another's minds.

_Invalid_, J'Mara's subconscious kept shouting at her. Disgust at her mate's apparent weakness. Trying to swallow it down because she'd felt his strength earlier, knowing that it would return, in time.

Vuron, too, struggled with social expectations. He hadn't let himself be bare in the presence of another since his childhood. The touch of a near stranger, and not a stranger, strained him mentally as she lifted arms and legs so the wet fabric could wipe away their mingled blood.

How they'd compartmentalized these incompatibilities as she revealed more and more of his pale body to her gaze, and he felt her appreciation of his lithe form trickle into her conscious. Her fingers didn't scrub at him, but traced a curve of muscle here, or a scar there, in exploration, rather than treatment.

How his body had shivered. Exhaustion, cold, cracks in his emotions breaking down even his ability to thermoregulate.

"Thermoregulate?" J'Mara had asked, belatedly realizing that, he'd used a word in Klingonese that she didn't have a definition for, rather than a Vulcan one.

"Sh- should be... be able... to..."

His teeth had chattered.

She'd smiled in comprehension, disappearing a moment from his sight to retrieve more furs. Without another word, she'd slipped in with him, wrapping the both of them in a tight cocoon of dead animal skins. Even tucked one, exquisitely soft, dense fur, around his feet.

"You have an interesting tendency of reliving memories," J'Mara pronounced, pulling him from his reverie.

He tucked his nose against her temple again, hiding the smile that quirked his lips, even if she could feel it through the bond.

"For once, I have memories worth reveling in."

He could feel both the roll of her eyes and the rush of pleasure as if they were his own.

"Our bond worries you," J'Mara declared as she stripped the remainder of his clothes from him.

"It is not the strength of it," he conceded, as their fingers grazed in a slow kiss. "It is the lack of control." _It is as if we are _too _compatible._

"You are certain you will harness it."

_I am not certain I want to._

The odd thought mingled between them. Vuron couldn't quite decide where it originated from. J'Mara ducked her head a moment, acknowledging for his sake that she didn't either.

They sighed in one breath and slipped between the layers of pelt that functioned as their shared pallet.

"It doesn't disgust you as much now," J'Mara said.

"For practicality's sake, if nothing else, their use is logical. The furs are warmer than any fabric made on my homeworld."

An ache built up in his heart. J'Mara's hand slid down to his right side, feeling the strong beat.

"It is a shame your people did not colonize, as mine does," she murmured. She had no definite figures, like he had, to run through her mind, but he felt the presence of an abstract _large number_ on Qo'Nos, how other planets, other moons, in surrounding systems, and systems far away, held a similar weight of lives.

Vuron allowed himself a shuddering breath.

"Help me forget, tonight," Vuron requested. "Help me heal."

"As you command, my love."

J'Mara kissed him the Vulcan way, her fingers intwined with his. She bit and licked at him at her instincts demanded.

Vuron allowed his mind to roll in the constant rumble of her lust, as a targ might in a pungent aroma, letting it wash over him, invade his every thought.

He bit her cheek and jaw, enjoying the pleasant thunder as she growled at him. The strong column of her neck called to him. The vibrations he felt through his teeth as he took her vocal cords in his mouth a fascinating sensation. She ached for him to bite her there, to mark her, but he refused more than a light hold, uncomfortable with the sensation of cutting off her airway, even if her body had evolved for this kind of play, with jaws filled with sharper, stronger teeth. He took in the curve of muscle at the side of her neck, however, biting and sucking until his jaw ached with the force. Blood seeped into his mouth while she gasped and arched under him. The peaks of her breasts hard and pressing into his torso.

One of her hands guided his fingers there, and he found himself supporting the soft, heavy tissue. His curiosity piqued.

He'd never had much tissue there himself, but had hated it with a passion until the very minute the cosmetic surgeons had put him under to remove it. Never examined it, unless he had to, never tested it for reaction to cold or heat or pressure as J'Mara's mind begged.

Vuron pressed careful kisses to the other side of her throat, marking her symmetrically, washing himself in her pleasure while his attention slipped to the heat in his palm. The hard nub of flesh pressed into the sensitive tissue there.

Her hand closed in a fist over his, their mingled fingers carving deep welts into the soft mammary tissue.

He bit harder, admonishing her.

_No, I will go at my own speed_, he pushed across their bond, even as his own blood rose to meet her heat.

She released him, her hands digging into his ribcage, so that his sensitive fingers could cup and press and manipulate as he needed to explore this unfamiliar flesh. She moaned above him, her vocal cords thrumming against his cheek.

He repositioned, tucking a thigh between hers so that her gyrating hips had something to grind against.

His lips offered one last gentle press against the two semicircular marks he'd left in her neck before traveling down.

She radiated her sensations back to him.

How his cool mouth closing over one aching nipple felt. How the gentle, fucking timid, explorations drove her to near insanity. Suggesting, at least, that he use that dexterous tongue to his advantage.

Vuron experimented, drawing small circles with his tongue around the sensitive areola, watching in the dim light as the dusky skin darkened with raised blood. Contracted into fascinating, minute wrinkles. How his fingers could almost duplicate the sensation from this nipple's twin, but the panting Klingon beneath him didn't believe it.

He smirked at a suggestion from her. Vuron cupped both breasts in his hands and pressed them together. They weren't quite large enough to bring the two sensitive buds to touching, but side by side he could lick and suck first one, then the other, in quite rapid succession, his thumbs flicking the pert flesh while his mouth worked over them. Found himself aroused by sucking their interlaced flesh into his mouth.

Hands tightened against his back. Sharp claws drawing bloody parallel lines over his ribcage. He groaned and bit at the flesh before him, his dull eyeteeth catching both nubs, sending waves of pleasure through his mate.

She ground her intimate flesh against the hard muscle of his thigh. Her scream took him unaware.

Vuron blinked up, taking in her panting, exhausted smile, the dampness between her thighs, pressed against him. The pulse of her heartbeat against his skin.

"If this was a race, I just beat you."

A burble of pride warmed him.

"Mmm. Come here. I need a moment to recover."

She wrapped her body around his, offering warmth while seeking to touch every square millimeter of skin she could. Vuron allowed his mind to center on the sensation of her pulse rushing through her own body, a thick throb slowing to a dull pulse.

"Are you ready for your gift?"

"Gift?" Vuron asked in response. His aching fingers caressing her skin in lazy circles, trailing down her taunt stomach, to her hipbone, and lower.

"Ah!" She bit his jaw. "Not ready for more. You're insatiable."

Vuron didn't argue with his bondmate; they both knew that she'd been _pushing_ him, that her lust had been sated temporarily. How both craved just a little more while they still-

Another sharp bite brought his mind back to the present.

"Your gift."

"Yes. Now seems as good a time as any to receive it."

J'Mara flung her arms up over her head. A playful smile tugged at her lips.

"You wished to challenge each of us earlier. Now I shall challenge you. You have ten questions to guess it."

Curiosity warmed him.

"Any other stipulations?"

"No."

"Will I still receive your gift, if I do not guess what it is?"

"You may, if you're a good enough boy." Her smile turned a bit feral. "You have eight left."

Vuron hummed and nuzzled into her side. Warming himself with her oven heat while considering his options. She'd retreated again, throwing up familiar mental walls. A basketweave, to his emotional bricks, allowing him flickering glances at what she thought, or intended him to think.

"You thought of something made of bone earlier," he verbalized after a moment.

"That isn't a question."

He nodded once in agreement, exploring deeper into her mind for whether he were on the right track.

"You're cheating."

"You stated there were no other stipulations. It is an item made of bone."

"Yes. And I am counting that as a question now."

"As you will. Was this an item recently made?"

"No."

Six questions left. Hm.

"A ceremonial item?"

"Depends on what one considers a ceremony. I would. You would not."

A Klingon item then. He should have assumed that, considering it had not been made recently. And the only items of Vulcan-origin would be sitting in the Ambassador's building at the capitol.

"Private ceremony, or public?"

She glowed with humor, but didn't laugh.

"Private."

His mind catalogued all of the ceremonies he knew of, opening his mind to her, displaying what he had available to choose from.

"Any of these?"

J'Mara did laugh at him then.

"None of those. Four left, love."

An old, Klingon item, made of bone. Used in private ceremonies, private enough that they hadn't been shared during diplomatic talks with anyone whom had shared data with the Vulcan database. Interesting. His mind took a different turn.

"Is it a weapon?"

"I already gave you a dagger, husband. Are you so bloodthirsty you require more?"

He niggled away at her.

"So, one could consider it a weapon, but you choose not to?" he guessed.

"Two left."

He pursed his lips at the non-answer. Considered arguing that a question, not answered, shouldn't count on his tally, but assumed that she would tick away at his last precious pair.

"How large is it?"

She smiled then, holding up her hands to describe a dimension a tad shorter than the length of her forearm, but declined clarifying if that meant length, width, or height.

"Is it in this room?"

"Yes."

His eyes wandered the weapons on the walls. It might be fitting if she decided to present him with a pair of bonding gifts. A functional, modern dagger and an antique? Or a sheath for it? But a sheath a good deal longer than the dagger itself would be impractical.

Her excitement grew as his eyes roamed, pointing him towards the crate where she stored her clothing.

"Shall I retrieve it then?"

She nodded.

Vuron felt the separation of their skin like a physical pain. The chill of the air didn't help.

"Add more wood to the fire," J'Mara stated. He watched her shiver, fascinated, before turning to the trunk.

_Another reason for us to practice being separate_, he thought.

_You/I do not like the idea._

The odd echo of an agreement that passed between the two of them.

He drew a deep breath, centering his mind a moment without her, focusing on his own internal balance. Speeding his heart up by a minor percentage, allowing capillaries in his dermis to relax, brought the warmth of his core outward. Not a realistic solution, long term, but with a thick pile of furs and a much warmer body to supplement his heat, loosing a degree or two for a few minutes would do him no harm. Through their bond, he felt J'Mara's muscles relax out of their trembling.

"You're blushing."

"Not quite," Vuron replied with a smile. "'Flushed' would be a more accurate term."

He could see his body, through J'Mara's eyes. Willowy and lithe. Pale skin greened, making him appear a bit darker in the meager firelight.

Her eyes, better adapted for stalking in the dark, picked out the oddest things to focus on. The way his feet had paused in an attack stance, without conscious thought on his part. The smooth, clean muscled grace of his limbs – _How are you so strong, with so little mass? – _and, oddly enough, the thick fringe of his black eyelashes.

Vuron blinked. He hadn't realized that his lashes could be considered thick. Within the range of the norm. _Desert adaptations, perhaps?_ he mused. Or did J'Mara muse?

"Now, you are blushing."

His fingers cupped his cheek without a thought, realizing the truth of her statement. His cheeks, and ears, were several degrees warmer than the surrounding flesh.

Vuron turned back to the crate and lifted the lid.

Whatever it was, he couldn't recognize the item.

It hadn't been wrapped in anything to obscure it, so he perceived the full length of bone, kinked at perhaps a... one hundred and twenty degree angle? The length on either end of the angle were uneven, doubtless intended to be so. The shorter end had been carved in a bulbous shape, thinning a measure before widening again at the bend. The inner curve of the bend had deep ridges cut into the surface. The longer end...

Vuron felt his cheeks heat further.

The longer end had been recarved; whatever the shape had been originally, it'd been repurposed into an exaggerated Vulcan phallus. The double ridges at the tip an over-exaggerated sweep up and away from the shaft, and tinted green.

"You have found your new sword?" J'Mara's presence reasserted itself through his confusion and embarrassment with a great, burbling mirth. "Bring it here. You are growing cold."

She sat up on the pallet, wrapping her arms around his bare thighs as he balanced the strange object between his palms.

"I still can not decipher the purpose of this... object."

J'Mara reached up, slinging a thick black fur around his shoulders. Residual heat from her body surrounded him.

"Just as I thought, uninventive Vulcans. No imagination."

"You've stated as such be- oooh."

Her tongue delving into his navel, silencing him. She plucked the item from his fingers, before it slid form his slack grasp. Out of sight and soon out of mind, as her molten hot tongue traced a staccato, interrupted with sharp marks from her teeth.

Hands wandered over his body, fingernails digging hard lines down his pectorals, over the taunt ripples of his stomach. Thumbs passed over the artificial nipples; a thread of disappointment passed through to Vuron. She'd expected a tantalizing thrill, like her own sensitive flesh gave her.

Before the surgery, he hadn't had any interest in tactile sensation there, only in binding down as tight and flat as he could. The loss of sensation hadn't meant anything... until it disappointed his mate.

A hard bite to his hipbone forced his thoughts to the present.

"Meld with me," J'Mara urged.

"J'Mara... _t'hy'la_."

"I can already hear your excuses rattling around in my head. You are worried you will bind us even tighter together. That you mind burn out my mind somehow, or I yours. That you will be overwhelmed with my emotions, or that I might loose myself in you. I do not care. The touch I received from you was wondrous. I could feel every touch through your skin as if it were my own. Every smell, every sound."

"I was exhausted then," Vuron murmured. "I worry I might have done something wrong... and I have no training to correct it."

"And now you are rested and recovered. And I am horny and want your body and your mind."

A thousand worries passed over his mind's eye, and into hers, since he held minimal barriers against his bondmate now.

She snarled in frustration and picked up one of his hypersensitive hands.

Lips plump, darkened, and hot from arousal pressed against the pads of his fingertips in a gentle, even caste, kiss.

"I am uninjured," she kissed again. Every ridge of his fingerprints catching on the chapped snags of her lips. "In fact, I feel more alive than I ever have before." The chaste press changed, her lips seizing at the wrinkles at each joint, the subtle grasp sending minute shivers down his spine. "A sense I've never had before has opened up to me; I hear the drum of my heartbeat, when it had been dead and silent my entire life."

Her tongue laved the thin webbing between his first and second finger.

He had a response... he really did... but-

He snagged up the hand braced against his hipbone, his fingers stroking and gripping hers. J'Mara gasped at the shared sensation of the rough kiss. Her tongue just peaking over her lower teeth. Vuron traced her lips with the pad of his thumb, pressed into the moist heat of her mouth.

Desire pounded against him. Hard steel against his defenses. Chipping away with amusement, assurance. Desire needing to be fulfilled.

_Please._

Stroke after stroke she battered him.

Parts of him chipped away. Resolve. Prudence.

They were already bonded. The mating drives furrowed into their cognizance, appetites galvanized towards acts of procreation, not bloodlust. Well, not killing bloodlust. Incompatibility held little weight, considering how fucking compatible they seemed up until now. Strong survival drives beat deep within each of their chests. Besides, a few bruises, a couple broken bones, meant the pleasure of the mating remained long afterward. Warmed the heart when one's husband no longer warmed a wife's bed.

They groaned as one.

_Please_...

She sucked on his thumb, her flushed cheeks tucked in with the draw, her tongue laving the seam of his fingernail, sharp teeth scraping long lines from base to tip. Warmth seemed to encompass his entire body, thrilling up from the very center of his body in waves, tingling in sparkling shards of glass to the tips of every finger and toe.

Desire crackled, lightening sharp pangs amid the swirling blizzard of hormones. Electric sparking at each exposed nerve cluster in their skin.

_Please_...

His right hand left the desperate tangle with her fingers. Fingers traced her eyebrow, her jaw. Their breath panting through clenched teeth. The bone in his thumb grated with the pressure of her jaw.

No need to center, to recite the familiar words to initiate the meld. The moment his fingers grazed over the psi points, he slipped into her mind and she into his.

Falling into a well, dark and all encompassing.

Slipping in between warm, musky furs.

Descending, tumbling, through senses: one moment sharp, monotone detail of sight and sound, the next a tactile realm, muted colors in the dark offering confusing aspects of the world.

Fingers clutching at bare skin. Holding, supporting. Steading one body upright, and anchoring the other to the very ground.

For several, long, painful moments, their hearts beat as one, flickering between the steady rhythm demanded by one body, then the skittering flutter of another. The rapid beat of J'Mara's eight chambered heart tapped a brutal triple step inside his chest; his own organ twitching muscle fibers it didn't possess. His heart raced at impossible speeds as his autonomic responses fought to right themselves, speeding along to his usual two hundred plus beats per minute, hiccuping at the improbable staccato, then sprinting forward again in a vane attempt to regain its proper tempo.

Vuron gasped in intense, unique pain. _Heart attack_, his mind screamed, muscles clenching to draw his body in, a higher metabolism taking over as a moment of shared panic sent J'Mara's heart racing even faster.

Not just the beat of the heart, but digestion, respiration, perspiration... all of those little functions J'Mara's hindbrain took care of without a thought flooded through their bond; Vuron's conscious control over his own bodily functions spasming with the weight of two bodies, one so _alien _that even the redundant organs flooded him. _Brak'lul_. Heart with too many chambers. Extra stomach working through the remains of their evening meal. Even the second liver filtering her very blood overwhelmed him.

They desperately needed to break away, separate their minds, their bodies. The myriad of bodily functions fell secondary to the primary functions, to breath, to pump blood, to fire synapses with the precision needed to complete even the simplest task.

Warmth flooded him. Reassuring warmth.

The unfamiliar warmth of emotion, allowed free reign.

Adrenaline diminished. The mingled rhythm of their hearts slowed.

Benevolent warmth purred through them. Soothing. Being soothed.

A mind comfortable with wrangling panic stepped up. Strong, arms, more a psychological notion then a physical one, wrapped around him. Accepting the hysteria, rather than trying to defeat it with utter control. Acknowledging fear like an old friend. Setting a place at the table for it. Pouring a large goblet of bloodwine for both, settling down, and staring deep into the troubling fire that raged within.

A tremor of nervousness caught Vuron again, as he felt the control slip away, but J'Mara held it, held him, firm.

No need to control. Not in a safe place like this. Warm, loving arms keeping him protected. Nothing but the winter winds howling at the walls outside.

But he needed to control! Every breath, every beat of his living heart, every contraction of masticated food from one lobe of his stomach to another. Without that control, every system of his body would cease to-

Confidence pushed at him again.

A hand sliding over the back of his, holding him tight. Securing him. Reassuring him.

No concrete thoughts passed between them. No words of encouragement or strategies.

J'Mara reached up into the continuing thread of adrenaline pooling in his blood, the practiced ease of an instructor stepping in where a student had overreached their abilities, taking calm command of the weapon in her student's hands before any harm could be done.

Vuron shuddered in her grasp. Stilling himself, body and mind, as he felt an uncountable multitude of minute variables fall away from his conscious control.

Before the panic could rear its head again, he felt the hot press of J'Mara's body against him. Felt the solid beat of her heart through his skin, rather than from inside his own ribcage. The quiet gurgle of her stomach against his thighs.

A new emotion washed over him. Utterly unknown.

Belonging. Acceptance. Turned towards _him_.

So... all encompassing. Not the head on challenge she'd presented his fear. A different flavor. Something new, even for her.

So soon after the flood of panic, sharing this warmth, this acceptance, this gentler emotion, could be more readily ingested.

Not control now, no control. Just letting J'Mara's subconscious take over all the jobs it'd been designed to do.

As he started to probe further, trying to explore where the threads of one fabric blended into another, a hot tongue interrupted his contemplation. Their minds still indecipherable in tactile sensation. He felt the delicate ridge of a navel in the center of a tautly muscles stomach with his own mouth. He rolled the delicate fold of skin between his teeth. Tasted the exotic fragrance of Vulcan skin through the predator olfactory senses of his mate.

Their earlier play a dull echo, the cyclical touch of J'Mara feeling how Vuron felt J'Mara returned; echoing on and on into eternity.

While his mind leaned back towards contemplation, J'Mara had other ideas. Her hands slipped from his, grasping his hipbones a moment, slipping lower.

Her callused fingers slid between his legs, the back of a knuckle tracing back and forth across his swollen slit.

They moaned as she stroked the very edge of him, coaxing his natural lubricant onto her fingers. Her mouth traced a hot, wet line down to the very core of him.

Breathed in his scent, memorized the acidic, dusky tang of his skin, of his arousal, as her fingers rocked back and forth, dipping in just enough to coax a little more fluid from his body.

He felt the hot steam of her mouth curling around his aching flesh. The scarred knuckle grazing the erect tissue hidden between his legs.

She ached to feel his flesh through his hands, wanted to watch him fingerfuck himself. Stretched out on some dark fur, so that his pale skin would glow in the firelight. Legs stretched out so she could see him part himself for her hungry gaze. Lips parted. Panting heavily with want.

Vuron growled, his fingers digging tighter into her cheek. He felt her lips tighten in a grin a moment before her warm tongue joined her fingers, laving him, delving into his moist folds.

Sensations swamped him, heady flavor and scent swallowed him up, her tongue circling his nub, taunting him a moment before her lips encircled him, sucking the small core of flesh into her mouth. Sharp teeth grazed his aching skin.

His gasping cry echoed in the quiet room.

He came into her mouth, quick and unexpected from the sharp ecstasy her lips and tongue. Her tongue flicked back and forth, riding him out as his hips bucked into her mouth, urging him to shudder even harder.

"No... no more," Vuron begged, as she started circling around his clitoris again.

She pressed her lips against him one last time before reaching for the bone phallus.

Her fingertips slid back and forth along his slit again, now welled up with his oily lubricant, using her dampened fingers on the bulb, slicking it up.

Vuron's mind shuddered in pleasure. He gazed down at her, curious but not delving into the little curtain of privacy she drew. Or he'd drawn. Hmm. His mind too muddled in afterglow.

Her fingers returned, delving a little deeper now. He groaned.

She'd curled one finger in, that first time, and it had felt wonderful. An odd intrusion, not one he'd let any other, even himself, do before. But her skilled, confident hand circled him again now. Pressed in and curled forward, pad of her callused finger pressing forward on spongy bit of internal flesh, drawing out a long, low groan. The aftershocks hit again, strong enough for the tendons in his thighs to twitch.

She slipped her finger out, that blunt bulb replaced it at his entrance. It felt a hell of a lot bigger than it looked.

"J'Mara?" he asked, a bit uncertain, but her lips returned to the twitching core of him and coherent thought left him.

Pressure against his hole. Wide, a bit painful. She wiggled the phallus back and forth a moment. He felt a bit of concern. Not sure if it would fit.

Vuron caught his lower lip between his teeth.

The Klingon growled in pent up frustration; gentleness and patience a learned behavior, not her preference right now.

"It will fit?"

She sucked him hard into her mouth, teeth gripping him near-painful.

The only warning a subtle flex of her shoulder.

Vuron screamed.

Something subtle tore as J'Mara seated the hard bone deep within Vuron's body.

She bathed her mate in long strokes of her tongue, gentle suction, her fingers stroking on either side of the hard phallus, her mind a mixture of soothing sensations, of begging forgiveness.

_You were a virgin,_ she didn't accuse, not really. Just confused.

_I never let him penetrate,_ Vuron thought, trying to ignore the sharp taste of his coppery blood in his mate's mouth.

His body adjusted, thanks in no small part to the tender ministrations of his bondmate. She gentled the hard surface into its final location, positioning the carved ridges of the inner curve of the bend against his aching erectile tissue, so that every movement of the object was transmitted directly to the nerve-dense tissue.

The bulb inside of him felt unfamiliar, but not painful; tender where the thin membrane of flesh had been torn. J'Mara urged him to clamp foreign muscles down there, gripping the bone.

The vulcan phallus twitched attractively when he did as she suggested.

_I like the effect_, J'Mara thought. A grin pulled her lips back in a feral, hungry grin.

She opened herself to him, and for a long moment, he saw himself as she saw him.

From this angle, his... cock looked very large. His hipbones curved up and away, exaggerating the view. A perplexed Vulcan met their shared gaze.

The cock twitched again, to J'Mara's mind, in invitation.

She slipped one hand to the underside, her mind agilely switching from thinking of that large bend as his _balls_ to his _pubis _somehow, as Vuron's Vulcan mind supplied that his testes, if he had them, would be internal, on his dorsal side, above his pelvis, but under his ribcage.

Her hand slipped up and down that smooth surface in a sure, long stroke, pulling those delectable ridges up to rub against him, the bulb shifting deep within. A harder pull and he felt how that bulb had been designed to rub that delightful, concealed location just above the inner surface of his pubic bone.

Through her eyes, he saw a Vulcan male, a complete Vulcan male.

_You were complete before,_ she grinned, her lips stroking back and forth over that green tipped member, _Now you just have a new accessory._

Vuron savored the perception of J'Mara's mouth closing over the hard, cool surface. Her tongue swirled over the head of his cock in a mirror of how she'd sucked him off before.

Now, though, she bobbed her head up and down over the hard length of him. Her tongue explored ridges left by the chisel. Hands rubbing in tender places to help his arousal along. Her throat convulsed around the unforgiving rigid member; each draw of her mouth bringing her lips farther down his cock, her lips closer to the very base of him.

Amusement tingled between them as she realized she couldn't deep throat the whole length she'd provided him.

His spare hand stroked her cheek; he memorized every moment of her worship of his body, every swirl of her tongue, every graze of her sharp fangs. The way her eyelashes fanned out over her cheeks as she concentrated. How he felt the vibration of her humming deep in his body. The flicker of gold in her deep eyes as firelight reflected in the dark when she glanced up to watch him. Her engorged lips wrapping around him.

She growled, giving him one last long lick before rising to her feet.

She kissed him the Klingon way, all gnashing lips and teeth. Her hands wrapped around his face, much the way he held her, pressing him close. Her hips ground against him, mashing his cock against the hard planes of her abdomen.

She raced a line of kisses along his jaw, right up to the delicate conical of his ear. Hot breath and deft tongue left him groaning, using her body as support.

J'Mara offered him a single chaste kiss to the pulsepoint in his throat before biting down into the trapezius muscle until the taste of coppery blood filled both of their mouths.

Impatience burned through their bond.

"Took you long enough," she rumbled against his flesh.

He howled as her teeth gnashed back into the wound. No gentleness. Only lust.

Vuron shoved her away. Fresh ripped in her mouth.

Warm wetness dripped down his chest. Emptiness tingled in his fingertips at the loss of contact.

With a snarl he leapt forward. They grappled for a few moment before Vuron had her flipped, belly down, over her cold iron trunk.

"Tired of me in your mind, my _t'hy'la_?"

She writhed under his hands. Every square millimeter of their skin tingled at the slightest touch; the bond attempting to reassert itself. J'Mara gasped and renewed her struggles.

"Not in my mind. You stuck in your mind."

Teeth caught the wrist supporting his weight on the wood. He slid from the grasp with shallow nicks in his skin. A hundred different defenses played out in his mind.

"That!" she snarled, punching him in the chest, bowling him over in a tumble of bare flesh. "Stuck in your mind! Just fuck me!"

A placed foot to her solar plexus flung her across the room. Weapons scattered across the floor as the ancient rack disintegrated under her weight.

He looked at her in a different light. Not just his bondmate, or the instructor, or this caring, careful lover.

The weight of thousands of years of Klingon history stood behind her. Just as the generations stood behind him. The urge to observe every action, examine reactions, experiment with outcomes dictated every action, every aspect, even if he stood as a half-successful example of Surak's teachings.

Before him, skin gleaming with sweat, breasts bobbing with her panting breath, teeth exposing in a feral gleam, stood a predator with very different needs. Not just sexual, of course, but those stood to the forefront at this particular moment.

The fact that she'd controlled herself, for his benefit, thus far spoke to her unprecedented patience.

"You wish me to fight with you."

A heavy shudder wracked her body.

"We sparred earlier." Her pupils dilated until he cold see nothing but black. "That will be enough. Stop thinking!"

She circled him. Stalked him.

The gleam in her eye brightened.

He wanted to concede to her wish, but his mind swum.

"You would not be satisfied with a mate who could not beat you."

A slight nod, barely noticeable in the dark, before she lunged at him. He glided away; agile and infuriating.

"Stop running."

He stilled his body. Arms relaxed at his sides. She knew the posture well enough not to advance. Prepared for any attack she might offer.

Compromise. A necessary component for survival.

"I will defeat you," Vuron said. The complete assurance in his voice hauled another large shudder. "Thus, I am not running. I am retreating for strategic advantage!"

His bare foot kicked up the weapon he'd been edging towards. In the dark he'd only seen a flicker of darker brown among the shadows. Leather and old wood met his aching fingertips. He didn't chance glancing down, tilting the weapon a moment to decide by the shift in weight if he held a spear of a staff. Equal weight. A staff then.

Her weight shifted, just enough, to invite an opening for him. Her grin all the more welcoming.

He jabbed quickly towards her shoulder, snapping the lower edge down in an arch as she deflected the blow, as he predicted, up and over to catch her on the side of the head.

In the small room, they had to move in concise, daring patterns.

"You can not win," Vuron taunted. "I am the stronger of the two of us."

A knife skittered over bare skin. Green blood ran, swiftly followed by a backhand, a disarming of the utilitarian weapons, and red blood in return.

"Do not play this game with me, husband."

They grappled a moment, over the knife, before Vuron swept J'Mara's legs out from under her.

"I aim to fulfill my bondmate's desires," Vuron growled.

He fisted a hand in her hair, lifted her up and tossed over the chest once again. Arm tight around her throat. Every struggle of her lithe body pressed her ass against his hard cock.

He caught the hand whipping around before the shard of splintered metal it held reached his thigh. He ground the bones in her wrist together until she was forced to release it. Pressed the hardness between his legs against her ass and bit the back of her neck with as much pressure as his jaw could muster.

Reveled in the purr she gave in return.

Vuron pinned her hands in the small of her back and released her throat long enough to press the meld upon her once again; forcing his way in, using his innate inquisitiveness to his advantage. Flooding her entire being with his questing thoughts. Washing her away in the deep well of his lust.

_You will keep your hands here_, he commanded, pressing her wrists tight a moment.

_If I don't?_

His mind flitted over her memories; Vuron's palm came down hard on the sensitive curve of her rump.

J'Mara yelped then groaned and arched up against his chastising hand.

_That does not make me want to behave_, her voice warned. _In fact-_

He smacked her again, harder, as she moved to struggle. He bit the nape of her neck at the feel of his own skin throbbing in time to her pulse.

With a shift of his weight, he exposed more of her skin to his palm. A kick to one foot spread her legs, baring her flesh to alternating strikes to each cheek. Reveling in her gasps and yowls.

_Enough,_ she growled.

He leveled a final blow, knowing her wishes as she knew them, before his fingers slid down the cleft of her. Surprised and not by the moisture he found.

His cock nearly slid from between his legs at the sensation of his fingers delving between her lips.

They clamped their thighs together, increasing the pressure of his intruding digits, as well as keeping her gift in place. Her moisture softening the rough drag of his callused hands to a slide that aroused both.

Vuron found a comfortable rhythm for only a moment before one of J'Mara's groans vibrated through his teeth.

_Fuck me_.

Hands reached for his cock. Caressing him. Drawing him closer to her heat.

For one blissful moment, he could feel his cock, his own flesh, parting the moist folds of her. Feel the impossible heat as she surrounded him. The tightness of her muscles gripping him, dragging him ever closer into her self.

Their hips bucked at one, conscious thoughts melted away to pure instinct. Fingers digging into soft flesh. Hips pounding bruises into tendons.

Their minds twinned together as their bodies raced to oblivion. Who-gripped-whom and who bled lost in _we_ and _us._ Time lost in the air dragged in through dry throats. Their world a long dark tunnel closing in around them until-

Darkness.

Vuron's hands slid away, sweat-slick and limp.

Someone whimpered in the dark at the loss of contact.

The fire had gone out.

They remained, collapsed atop one another on the bare ground, until Vuron's shivering annoyed J'Mara enough that she rolled off of him.

Vuron shuddered underneath her as she slipped off of his painfully hard cock.

_Fuck. I'm still in your mind._

She scooped up her husband and plopped his limp form back onto the pallet.

Two sets of eyes surveyed the mess of the room in mild curiosity as J'Mara teased Vuron's member from his body. Muscles had clamped deep within him with that last orgasm, making retrieval of the smaller bulb side more difficult than initial application.

"Need to work on your sex talk," J'Mara grumbled aloud, once she'd plucked the bone away.

Vuron allowed a smile to tug his lips up.

He felt her grin in return. Tasted, as she tasted, as her tongue bathed his member, cleaned it of their mingled juices. Spasmodic muscle clenching radiated from his pelvis. Curious, but not unpleasant.

Her eyes gazed about the room again, finally exploring how much he could see within the darkness. Not much, other than to perceive it was, indeed, dark. The crack under the wooden door allowed some light from the hallway, on occasion, but at the moment, the torches in the hallway were gutted too.

Through her eyes, even without a fire, he could discern the outlines of his body in the furs, the glimmer of metal where the weapons'd been scattered.

"I suppose I could see where this might become an issue," J'Mara conceded.

Vuron caught up one of her hands, nibbling her palm as she so often did to him.

So exhausted that, for once, he felt no need to examine. To question.

He placed the palm of her hand against his side, so she could feel the steady beat of his heart, and allowed himself to feel. His own emotion, honest, open.

She'd shown him lust, caring, belonging, desire... so many aspects of something his people barely acknowledged.

Love.

As sleep took him, he shared his love with this magnificent, amazing, creative, intelligent, battle-hardened amazon.

An annoyed little huff passed through her lips, but she tugged him into a tight embrace, throwing a leg over his hips, and allowed his weary mind to drag her into sleep with him.


	14. Of Leavings, and New Beginnings

Vuron's internal clock awoke him at dawn. J'Mara found herself awake as well.

Vuron offered his apologies and retreated to the main hall. Hoping that distance and meditation might offer each of them a modicum of privacy within their minds.

A couple hours later, J'Mara sat next to him, awkwardly folding her legs as he'd folded his. A fur tucked around her shoulders. She offered him another.

"I am sorry my body temperature kept you awake."

She sighed. "Your mind is racing. I could not sleep again regardless."

Vuron folded his hands in his lap and attempted to return to meditation.

Each Vulcan controlled of their emotions in their own way. At least, so said his long-suffering mother. Clearing their mind with music, or the song of the desert winds.

He found solace in the image of a mental fortress. Each room built of impenetrable stone. As he aged, the design changed. Rooms grew or shrank as he needed them. Long quiet corridors that led to no where in particular. Great libraries to hold all of the knowledge he kept. A dojo at the center, the floor a piecemeal of ice, woven mats, warm sand, cold earth.

In this hall, he often sparred with himself, or an imagined opponent. The ice would grow and cover every surface, to remind him how to place his feet to handle the lack of traction while delivering kharakom kicks. The soft sands flowed as he practiced with the lirpa.

Now...

Now the walls held weapons racks. A Klingon banner hung in a place of honor at the far end, next to a painting of Surak, and a black-and-white photo of Sensei Morihei Ueshiba.

J'Mara walked beside him in this realm. Eying the constantly shifting floors.

"Does it always do this?"

He heard her voice close to his right ear, where she sat, her knee barely touching his, even as he saw her standing several lengths away from him in his mind.

"No." He sighed, shaking his head and allowing his bastion of control to slip from his mind's eye. Blinking up at J'Mara's practice hall, the real thing, he realized that the walls of his internal dojo had taken on the same rough proportions. The same racks. Same flag in the same location.

This is her dojo. Her place of practice, of grounding. It would be useless to attempt to shake her assumptions from his mind.

He reached out, a bit tentative, with two fingers of his nearer hand for a kiss. She caressed him without thought or hesitation. Their minds sparked together. Breath shuddered as one into their lungs. Hearts racing a moment, trying to find a tempo between them again.

Vuron pulled back and sighed.

"It seems that you have more control than I, at the moment. The only structures that don't shift within my mind right now, are ones you are offering to me. I thank you for the support; without it, I might very well be lost."

His bondmate turned moist eyes to him. She felt his worry, saw the permutations that twisted through his mind with the same clarity he did. Felt him attempting to pick up the scattered pieces of himself with little success.

"Vuron, I-"

"Do not regret last night." They smiled at one another. "The bond half formed would have been torture for both of us. You will have to forgive me as I reconstruct my control."

"You know my opinion on that."

And he did. She hated it. Hated seeing him wall away something that her people thought of as a strength. But even she knew the value of control. Knew that without the very basics of it, his mind would be lost in ways that her people never had to worry about.

Their fingers touched in another automatic embrace.

A sound teased Vuron's attention to the back of the hall; J'Mara recognized it at the same moment. They turned as a single unit, hands slipping into the deep folds of respective pelts.

One of J'Mara's students, Kurath, threw open the doors. The howl of the never-ending blizzard announced him. Both cursed and shouted at him with the ease of an age's old teacher-student relationship.

"Well that's downright eery," he growled, once he got the doors closed again. Dark, suspicious eyes flicked back and forth between them.

"Come closer when you whisper like that," J'Mara ordered. Very rude for him to murmur in the presence of anyone of higher rank. Only Vuron's sexy little ears picked up the sound.

Jaws clenched as the impudent student stepped close enough to place his body between the pair, back to the Vulcan. Vuron stepped back, forcefully biting his lip to keep from speaking as an echo to J'Mara.

_Had we been speaking as individuals before? Or together?_

_We were alone. I hadn't... been paying attention._

_Fuck._

_ Indeed._

"Scanners picked up a shuttle arriving," Kurath continued to growl. Attempting to subvocalize so that the pale smooth-faced invader wouldn't hear. Ha.

"I called for it yesterday. Our guest is returning to the capital. Make sure the landing pad is clear. Full scans."

"Yes, my lady."

"And get the kitchens to warm up something. I am starved." _There are tubers for you. I made sure that you would eat well before you left today. Tea and a hot grain mash, too._

Kurath's eyes tightened. Fist clenched, just enough.

Vuron blocked the blow. Blunt teeth bared as J'Mara bared her fangs. J'Mara's hands up to block a blow not aimed for her.

The fur fell from Vuron's bare shoulders as he disarmed the student and turned the d'k tahg back onto his throat.

"I would suggest you do not attempt that again," he snarled in perfect Klingon. "Lady J'Mara might hold you in high esteem, but you drop your left shoulder before every attack. I will always know before the blow falls."

The bigger man spat into the Vulcan's face; his inner eyelids flicked shut before the saliva hit.

"Kurath!"

Jaws clenched again as Vuron's ears picked up their twined voices.

The student snarled and pulled away from Vuron's slack grasp.

"Do as you're bid, Kurath."

"As your guest wishes," the young man snarled, bowing to his mistress, rather than acknowledge the Vulcan again.

They sighed as the side door closed after his retreating back.

"You will have interesting questions to answer, my bondmate."

She nodded.

Vuron tasted hot Klingon blood. She'd bit her lip too, to silence herself.

His tongue found her bottom lip, exploring the thin line of little cuts. Needing to taste her himself, rather than by proxy. She groaned into his lips.

"If we begin this again, you will make Bel'tath's pilot wait."

She enclosed his naked body in her arms, in the fur that her greater body heat had warmed.

He tucked his nose against her cheek and listened to her heart beat while forcing his to slow back to a normal pace.

It shouldn't have taken as long as it did.

Her eyes glistened again as she pulled away.

"His dagger, please. It will be difficult to tell him that you took it as a spoil of battle after so small a skirmish."

"He shouldn't have let me have it so easily."

J'Mara nodded agreement.

Vuron focused on keeping his body still as she placed the dagger on a peg meant for her students to share. Focused on feeling the cold of the air around him, rather than the warmth of her skin.

"Come. I wish bathe and dress you for battle, my love. It is the least a wife can do for her husband before he leaves."

She tucked the fur around him again, shivering herself. He sighed, knowing he would have to be more diligent about his thermal regulation. If she shivered like that in practice, with live weapons, or on the hunt, it could mean the loss of-

"Hush. Please."

He nodded and concentrated on the feeling of her fingers in his as she led him back to her quarters. Of the fleecy leather she used, the water heated before her fire, the spicy soap she favored, as she meticulously bathed his entire body. Her strong callused fingers scrubbing into his scalp. Hot water poring over his head and down the rest of him.

He buffed his own body dry with another soft skin while she collected his Master Chijqa's used armor.

"Incorrect assumption, my love," she replied, a smile on her lips.

"Oh?"

She shook out the leather and stretched it to his shoulders to check the fit.

"Your armor?" Vuron asked, worried he'd arrive back at the Vulcan compound with a keyhole cut in the armor, right in the center of his chest, displaying his scars for all to see.

She laughed at the mental image. "No, no. This is yours. It is a Mistress's right to clothe her husband as she sees fit. Dishonorable for you to return home in old borrowed things. You'd be telling Mistress Bel'tath that I couldn't afford to equip you with the basics."

"Ah."

She clothed him with the care of ceremony. More layers than most Klingon men traditionally wore, to keep him warm in the blizzard. Several expensive hidden layers of fine wool rested against his skin. Vests, long sleeved shirts, tight leggings. When she finally clothed him in the furs that were hunted for only on her lands, the animals saved for great rites of passage, he stopped her to look at the skins.

J'Mara had them lined. Each and every one. Lined with fabric so silky it could not have originated on Qo'Nos. Lined so that his skin would never touch the bare leather, only the thick, soft pelt on top. He swallowed his thanks for all of the effort she went through on his behalf, knowing that she heard them clearly enough.

Her fingers grazed his in a quick kiss before she resumed her task.

"These are your pelts," she stated. Keeping her mind on the task, rather than letting herself dwell on what that task meant. "You hunted these animals, thus they will not go to waste."

"I'm not sure I wanted to know that."

She laughed. Fingers plucked up the thick leather outer vest. The metal tipped shoulder plates. Belts. Sash.

His fingers stroked the emblems there. J'Mara's house, and the Imperial badge.

"Because my house belongs to Bel'tath, we will ask for permission to grant you hers as well. But I have every right to mark you as mine."

A warm little glow settled in his stomach.

The weapons came next, the d'k tagh he "won" from her slipped into one glove, the one he'd brought with him at hip, bat'leth strapped securely at his back, throwing daggers in his boots, and a couple new weapons he hadn't brought with him secreted in various locations. J'Mara wished he had a disrupter to hang from his belt as well, but there was no need.

"You send me back bristling with weapons."

"I protect my husband the only way I can. It is dishonorable that Chijqa sent you naked as he did into unknown territory."

"Hardly naked."

She blew out a rude noise, wrapping him in a thick fur cloak, this one lined in felted wool. She tugged up the hood, checking the length, before pulling the high wool gorget closed. The felting kept the hood closed and protected his throat, face, and ears from the winds, leaving only his eyes and the bridge of his nose bare.

"Barely clothed then."

She tucked his arms through the holes in the cloak, demonstrating how a second layer had been added, so that he could tie closed the inner lining to keep his torso warm, while keeping his arms free to protect himself.

"J'Mara."

His weapons would be difficult to retrieve, cocooned like this, but J'Mara trusted his exceptional ears to warn him to prepare himself for battle.

"J'Mara-"

A second set of gloves covered the first. The leather of the inner layer creaked against the cured skin of the fur gloves. Panels of hard leather had been sewn in to offer more protection to his wrists.

"_T'hy'la._"

Another layer of fur swaddled his middle, strips swinging loose until she tied them in against his knee and ankle, ending in a ridiculous boot covering.

"_Love!_"

Her eyes flicked up to him. Tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Oh, Love."

Vuron wrapped his arms around his bondmate, feeling utterly ridiculous in all of the wool and leather and fur. The buffer keeping them from skin-to-skin contact helped, somewhat, but he ached to lick up the salt of her tears.

"You hear the engines of the shuttle."

Vuron sighed.

"Yes."

"Go to the hall and eat. I can not watch you climb into that monstrosity."

He nodded. She had no wish to see him voluntarily leaving her. Reason and logic nothing to do with the irrational fear and anger that mental image seeded within her.

"Remember. Always with me. Parting and never parted." His bound fingers gripped hers.

"Especially with a bond this unnaturally strong," she replied, a sad smile playing at her lips. "And you doing everything you can to block it."

Their foreheads tapped together, eyes closed in a comfortable mirror of one another.

"For both of our sakes, my love."

"You hope that distance will help."

"It might. But I will always know if you are in danger, no matter the distance."

Neither voiced the fact that had not helped him save Rellig, or any of the other delegate's mates.

They took several long breaths as a single unit. Vuron fighting to form some barricade for the sense of loss he knew he would feel the moment he stepped out of the door of her room. Felt her close off from that pain as well.

"Try not to think of me, until you are in the air."

He nodded. Their intwined fingers tightening for a long moment.

Sensitive Vulcan ears lost the sound of the shuttles engines. Landed and shut off, then. If he wanted to partake of the meal J'Mara had ordered for him, he needed to leave now.

"Go."

One last squeeze. One last sigh with his nose filled with her scent. Missing the depth of scent she perceived.

He swallowed, attempting to moisten his parched throat, and left.


	15. One Eyed Pilots

A/N: Some of you who've followed me have probably already gotten the e-mail alert, but I figured (for the folks who followed FAFH by itself) that I'd let ya know that I've started up a rated-T companion piece, The Fallen. It's archived on FF, so you'll be able to find it if your interested. Not required reading, by any means, but Vuron and J'Mara are arguing with me in their current chapter, so I'm going back and forth with The Fallen to give them time to cool off.

I just know J'Mara is plotting my sudden but inevitable demise.

Oh! And I made note over on TF, so I should make note over here as well. I'm going to be on the road this weekend, which means I'm gonna be seeing wifi spots as I travel the interstate. So, just 'cause I can, I'm going to be posting a chapter a day while I have the internets available. Definitely every day for TF, most likely every day for FAFH. Surprisingly, it takes about the same amount of time for me to write a 500 word chapter as it takes me to write a 5,000 word chapter.

I'm weird and wordy. Anyway, enjoy the inundation of queer Vulcans!

* * *

"Took you long enough."

Vuron glared up at the pilot. Same one as before. _Now_ he spared a moment of worry for lack of depth perception. He felt a touch of amusement and pressed it down.

"At least it didn't take me three days like last time, hm?"

He hoisted himself up into the shuttle and fought the door closed. Even the winds seemed to want to keep him here. Out in the wilderness. Away from all of the dramatics and politics. Closer to-

He sighed and keyed the lock.

He swung the sack of food the cook'd foisted upon him onto the bench while the one-eyed Klingon started his engine heating.

"It'll take us a minute. Blasted cold."

"I am no great hurry," Vuron sighed. A bit too quiet than was polite. Didn't have the energy to care.

Had to reach underneath his cloak to undo the clasps that held his bat'leth before he could sit. No intention of removing his cloak yet. Every tie, every buckle, had been secured by his mate. One last embrace to savor.

He did, however, release the gorget to ease his breathing.

"Warm enough?"

His eyebrow raised at the pilot's comment.

"Yes."

"Certainly decked out better than how you came out. Now you look like a right little lordling."

"'Look like'? He _is_ a little lordling. Look at the badges on a man's sash before you go insulting him."

"J'Mara?"

A familiar, grinning face turned to greet him from the co-pilot's seat. Cheeks pink from the wind. Eyes crinkled with the force of her smile.

"Decided to come with you." _And there. A surprise you had no idea about. You see, a bit of practice, and we'll be able to tuck things away from one another. You should see your face!_

"I-" Vuron's mouth closed with an audible snap. _You are coming with me?_ _And somehow, I find it more logical that you hadn't planned this at all. Of the two of us, you are the one more likely to be inspired into impetuous- _

"Stunned to silence, eh? My great beauty does that." She fluffed her hair in a comedic show for the pilot. _I do not mind talking to you like this, but you will have to form words out loud for our friend here. _

"I am stunned by the honor you give me, my lady," Vuron found himself saying. _Please... explain. I am lost. _His fingers clenched into fists at his side.

_I know you ache to touch me, husband, but ease yourself. This man is a spy for another lord._ "Little honor. I need to speak with my lady, I am simply keeping my pilot at home. The weather is atrocious."

The pilot, _A spy?_, barked a laugh. "If you think the weather is so bad, tell your lady to hire someone else to fly it. Or better yet, a shuttle younger than thirty years old. Thrusters heated. Starting sequence. Best turn your seat around, Lady J'Mara. The cross winds are treacherous around your landing pad."

_Why does she employ a spy?_

J'Mara flipped her seat around and locked it into place.

_Better the spy you know than the one you don't. This is the one Chijqa entrusted you to? When you were in your blood fever? I will have to speak with him._

_The pilot was closer to death, in here with me, than he knew._

J'Mara found some explanation for her unexpected laughter.

"What do you need to speak with Lady Bel'tath about?"

She flipped a loose wrist about in an odd, effeminate manner.

"That means, boy, that she needs to talk woman things with our Lady."

_Boy? _"Woman things?"

_Ease yourself, husband. To one who has not tested your blade, you do look quite young._

"My wife does that too," the pilot waggled his hand back and forth. "When I will get no answer from her."

"I thank you for the translation." _It is insulting. _

_ Battle the slights intended, let the others skitter off your armor unheeded._ "I should think no translation is needed. Do not your Vulcanoid women have such issues?"

"If they do, they do not speak of it with me."

He felt her warm smile.

_In truth, I wish to formally request permission to wed you. Traditionally, I would ask the lady of the house that I am marrying _into_ for permission, go through their rites..._

_ But I have no house, no lady._ The ache of his lost homeworld, familiar and painful, tugged at his side.

_You would have no house or lady anyway,_ J'Mara responded. She made a show, for the pilot, of crossing her arms over her ample breasts and closing her eyes for a nap. Vuron opened the sack and pulled out a hot loaf of bread and tore chunks from it, keeping his mouth and hands occupied. _You should tear larger pieces and stuff them in your mouth. You are too delicate._

_A year ago I would not eat with bare hands at all._ Vuron swallowed a sigh and plucked a larger chunk and tucked it into his cheek the way she thought he should be eating, masticating slowly and swallowing the crumbles as he went. _Should I be requesting permission to join her house?_

For once, it was J'Mara's mind filled with a jumble of permutations as to how to deal with the situation.

Men did not ask to join a wife's house. J'Mara led her own house, thus she declared him part of hers. But Bel'tath could see such a declaration as a bid for power, especially if she assumed J'Mara intended to make alliances with the Vulcans behind her back. Correcting the Lady, telling her that actually, Vuron held a place of dishonor among his people, would not settle that dispute, but raise others. She'd question J'Mara's loyalty. Question if J'Mara intended on dragging Bel'tath's name through the mud. Vuron could request permission to join Bel'tath's house as J'Mara's _wife_... but J'Mara had no interest in that.

Vuron delved into the rites a wife goes through to be approved, curiosity getting the better of him.

_I could do those,_ he figured. _Quite easily, in fact. ...If it kept your House stable, I am willing to request the right to be your wife. Such labels mean little to me when I'm not on-_

J'Mara snorted under her breath.

_Shut up. It matters to me. I might consult the archives before going to Bel'tath. You have special access in your quarters, yes?_

He nodded before tearing off another unmanageable hunk of bread.

_Good. I think I would like a night to rest before facing her regardless._

Vuron's mind slowed to sludge as he saw her intention to spend the night in his quarters. In the house provided. For the Vulcans. With his coworkers. And the Ambassador.

_Oh Kahless._

_I will be on my best behavior. Now eat some of those roasted tubers. For the first time in my life they smell delicious and I'm hungry. Or you're hungry._

_ There is enough, if you want some._

She snorted again and shifted to find a less comfortable position to lean her head.

J'Mara did eat one of the roasted tubers, eventually, when she discovered that no amount of eating Vuron did filled her stomach. Of course, the tender flesh had gone cold and hard at that point. The pilot enjoyed laughing at her over that. A quick glare quieted him.

_I have another stipulation, love._

_ Oh?_

_ I will bare your children._

Vuron coughed around a mouthful of boiled grain.

"You okay back there, little Vulcan lord?"

"Yes," Vuron spat out between coughs. "Over cooked."

"Ah, that's why I only eat the freshest _gak_."

_Children? J'Mara... _t'hy'la_... love... you do realize the... genetic impossibility. I can not impregnate you._

_ Klingon genetics are far more adaptable than any stubborn Vulcan could possibly imagine. Do you think we conquered all of the planets in the Empire by blood?_ Her mirth washed over him. _Klingon blood is quite strong, my love. Quite adaptable. _

_ So, if I created a genetic profile, of all the Klingons, across the Empire-_

_ You would find a spectrum of genetic diversity._

Vuron let himself consider that while he plucked out chunks of unidentifiable bits from the gruel.

_That versatility, while fascinating, still holds little weight. I do not physically have the capability to do what you are requesting._

_ We will see. I know I will enjoy the attempting. We will have to practice frequently._

"Coming on the capital now. Where shall I land?"

"Hmph. Wind is picking up. Split the difference."

She ordered the man to land a comfortable distance away from the Vulcan compound.

_Halfway between Bel'tath's house in the Capital and your home. He will make his own assumptions._

She made a show of picking up his bat'leth and the sack with the remaining food, commenting on how weak these damn Vulcans were, before waving the pilot off.

Here, between the tall, curved buildings, the winds twisted erratically.

"May he crash someplace useful," J'Mara spat.

"I thought the spy you knew was better than the one you didn't?"

She huffed. With a glance around to find an unoccupied alleyway, she led the way.

"All these politics. I prefer a blade in my hand. None of this shadow dagger stuff."

In the darkness of the ally, she reached under his cloak to secure his bat'leth against his back. Tender hands found the places where not _so_ many layers separated their skin.

"Lead the way back to the house assigned to you? If we take a direct route, we should be back before your pesky Ambassador Sranak returns."

Vuron felt his lips quirk, the flutter of annoyance that she'd looked into his mind for the daily schedule lost in the ideas that suggested themselves over what they could do to occupy themselves with in the precious couple hours left to them before his return.

Her bare fingertips grazed his lips before she reached up and secured the gorget back into place.

_You worry that you show too much emotion in your face._

He nodded, both to her spoken question and unspoken comment. J'Mara tossed the sack over her shoulder and peaked out of the mouth of the alley before waving him forward.

_You show barely any. Your idea of a smile, a real smile, tightens your eyes some, along with that little tilt of your lips. Your gorgeous lips, by the way._

_ What is subtle to you, screams to my people_, Vuron countered, checking for landmarks before selecting a path. _Why this sudden interest in my facial expressions?_

_ It bothers you,_ she shrugged. _And there is worry that you will be indiscreet as you bring me in. That the lust in your eyes will be a beacon that will disgust and horrify those men and women you work __with._

_ One who has fully inundated themselves in Surak's teachings would not show any emotion on their face. Would not have emotions to worry about showing._

_ Oh you know that is not true. Emotions tightly shackled are still quite there. Quite alive. They are simply waiting for the day that they are released. Pressure built up like that can be explosive._

Her thoughts turned to his blood fever, wondering if it might not strike so hard if one embraced their emotions between the cycle. Vuron wouldn't be one to know.

The wind buffered them down nearly empty streets. Midday, and no shoppers, no diplomats or lords or warriors running too or fro. Too cold, even for the stalwart Warrior Caste.

Vuron found himself slipping off the outer fur gloves, slipping them into a hidden inner pocket. The inner, fingerless gloves, left just enough of his skin exposed to the cold air to get comfortable.

_Have I swaddled you too much?_ J'Mara asked, her own gloves now tucked away as well.

_I have no comment._

Cold fingertips found one another as they walked side-by-side. J'Mara laughing aloud at the not-subtle pretense for physical contact.

The Ambassador's home looked exactly as he remembered. J'Mara wondered if they'd have to wait for someone to answer the door, but Vuron let himself in with a quick input of his security code.

"Brr! I don't think I've ever felt such a cold winter."

"I know I haven't."

They fell into silence while they shook off the worst of the snow from their cloaks. Vuron's ears tuned to the activity in the halls. Quiet. Only a couple people puttering about in the kitchen.

_You are on guard._

_ I have been out of communication for many days. And I was hardly fit enough to do my job when the fever first took me._

They stilled their bodies at the quite approach of two sets of feet. Light, quiet, and even, like most Vulcans. The slight shuffle of one, and the quick percussion of the other, informed him of their identity.

It didn't, however, prepare him for the eyes widened in terror, lips parted, prepared for a scream.

"I have returned," he hastened to correct assumptions, quickly unbuttoning the wool gorget and pushing back the concealing hood of his cloak. He hadn't considered how his tall frame, silhouette altered by the many layers of fur and wool, might look. None in this household had seen him in anything other than his uniform or meditation robes.

The eyes of the elderly cook took a fraction longer than his assistant to return to normal.

"Vuron. You survived."

"I have."

Judging eyes passed between their security officer and his guest. They assumed that she was his mate, correctly. He saw it in the way their gazes flicked down to where their fingers had been intwined a moment before. Too ignorant of Klingon ways to be unaware of the fact that such a familiar gesture meant nothing to their hosts.

"You are well."

"I am."

J'Mara huffed. She tossed back her hood with a careless hand. Grinned her familiar, feral grin, before taking his fingers in his own again. Exasperated by the careful politics with underlings.

"I nearly froze my eyebrows off out there. You are the cook, yes?" She waited a long while for a responding nod. "Good. Hot tea, please. Bring it up to Officer Vuron's room. Not much point standing in the doorway all day, eh bondmate? You said your room is up this way?"

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, leading the way as he silently pointed it out.

_No one calls me Officer._

_You are worthy of your job title, you earned it love._

A tendril of warmth passed between them. The door closed behind them with a solid thunk. J'Mara spared no time, tossing him against it's solid surface. Hands deftly undoing all the buttons and latches, divesting him of the cloak. Bat'leth fell to the floor without ceremony. Sharp little claws found their way between the layers of wool to his skin, teeth snagging on his lips.

_Kahless. To have you so close but not touch you. My hands are burning._

Vuron growled into her mouth. His own hands desperate to touch, to fill himself with her warmth. His aching, cold hands slipped into her armor, filling his palms with the soft, warm globes of her breasts.

They moaned in tandem. Her nippled pebbling at the cold intrusion. Ropes of pure lust whipping down to their nethers. Her hips bucked against his. Claws tugging at his hair.

A quiet knock on the door vibrated through Vuron's shoulders. They froze. J'Mara pulled back, grinning.

She situated herself at his computer, booting the machine up. Other than the plump, warm look of her freshly bitten lips, she had the ability to compose herself with a startling swiftness. With a quick thought from her, he brushed his fingers through his disheveled hair before opening the door.

The cook's young assistant looked back and forth between the two of them, tray balanced between her hands.

_Do all of your people look so haunted?_

"Thank you," Vuron said, stepping back to allow her to enter.

"I warmed some bread and honey as well," the assistant murmured. Her voice at a volume polite for a Vulcan, cool and modulated. "I assumed a pot and two mugs would be preferred."

"That is an acceptable assumption."

Vuron gestured to his computer table, the only flat surface with enough clear space for the large metal tray. He sucked in the familiar scent of the spiced tea. A scent that dredged up images of home and family and happier memories that he had precious few of.

J'Mara ached to go to him, but he closed his eyes and pushed down the just-as-familiar feeling of homesickness.

_Of course we are all haunted._

The split second of emotional indiscretion was missed completely by the young woman.

She stood completely still, tray hovering over the table, staring at the Klingon in Vuron's seat.

_I believe you will have to rescue her._

"T'Sai? You may place the tray down now. I will return it to the kitchens when we are done."

"Yes. Yes, of course. Vuron. You are... bonded with a Klingon."

Not exactly a question. The staff had expected him to walk into the woods and expire, as he had. His survival did not meet the expectation of statistical probability.

_She is afraid that when her time comes, she will find herself bonded to a barbarian as well, love. Easy enough to figure that out._

Vuron sighed. "Yes. I have survived my Time by bonding with a Klingon. It is not politically respectable to announce this, and introduce my bondmate, to anyone but the Ambassador first."

"Y- yes." She blinked long and slow, tucking her hands behind her back. Vuron allowed her the moment to collect herself. "It is appropriate, then, for me to inform you that the Ambassador has not returned to the house for two days. We have not been informed of his intended return date."

J'Mara studied the girl. Her thoughts racing to dark places, looking for stress and worry where none would be found.

"The negotiation staff?"

"Are with Ambassador Sranak."

"His current whereabouts?"

"We have been informed that they are touring the Houses of the Council members. There was a vote to leave the city before the winter blizzards made travel impossible."

"Please inform the rest of the house staff that I have returned."

She nodded, accepting the dismissal.

"You should have asked her more questions," J'Mara stated blandly, once the door closed behind T'Sai.

"She has told us all that she knows." Vuron reached for the pot and poured them both a healthy dollop of the tea. He brought the red earthenware to his nose. Savored the layers of deep scented spice.

J'Mara had her cup lifted to her nose as well. She'd expected to enjoy the scent, based on Vuron's memory of it, but the reality wrinkled her nose.

"Ug. That's..." _Bitter._ "Very strong."

Vuron smirked and took a long drink.

J'Mara sputtered into her cup and set it aside.

"You may enjoy the rest of that pot. I will stick with bloodwine. What if she'd holding something back?"

"Unlikely. She is concerned for the Ambassador. All of the information the house staff received was second hand. They would not have had the ability, or training, to check the accuracy of the information. When she informs the rest of those still here of my return, I am sure others will come with additional information. If there is any to be had. The most likely individuals would be the pilots, but the Chancellor insisted that we utilize his shuttles and people for the duration of negotiations."

J'Mara grumbled, her fingers straying to his computer. She delved into databases, skimming notifications and general alerts that had built up while he was away, without conscious knowledge of the fact she wasn't literate in the language the screen displayed.

"Oh why did you notice that? Now I can't read a blasted thing."

Vuron allowed a real smile, indulged in another long sip from the mug, before returning it to the tray.

"Give me a moment, and I can change the UI to Klingonese."

He leaned over the display, her shoulder touching his side. He dismissed the windows that had opened automatically, and ones that J'Mara had opened, before delving into the system interface.

"Interesting that you have it set up to give readouts in other languages."

"Sranak required full fluency in all of his negotiation staff. It is good practice. I simply prefer keeping it in Vulcan for security sake. I haven't met many from Qo'Nos that know my language. Fewer who could get through my firewalls so easily."

Her hands reached up between his, fingers grazing a moment in a chaste kiss before she took over. Looking for data through her channels.

"They are in recess," she grumbled. "Not out of the ordinary. Would your Ambassador be so trusting to go into an unknown House without his security officer?"

Vuron allowed his mild irritation be his sole answer.

Neither found evidence for where his current location might be.

"There is a higher probability that he would be with the Chancellor. I will send a comm request for-"

"No. I don't like this situation, love. Lady Bel'tath hates her lands in winter. She stays in the city, even if the snow creeps up past the second window." Her fingers quickly pulled up weather announcement in the general 'net. "If I head out now, I can get there in two hours."

"You might be snowed in at her house if you walk," Vuron said. Stray thoughts of how they'd intended to spend the rest of the day swam through his mind. He sighed, resigned to the fact that they needed a confidential word with a trusted Councilwoman more than he needed to taste his mate again.

J'Mara growled next to him. "You're tempting me."

Vuron stifled a smile. "My apologies. I allowed my mind to wander. I will go speak to one of the pilots. Our shuttles might not have phasers, but they have more than adequate shielding for the current weather."

Her fingers grazed his again as he stood.

"I will return shortly."

She rolled her eyes, already knowing his intent before he said it.

Vuron pounded down the stairs while J'Mara remained in his room. Reams of data flowed through his mind's eye as J'Mara continued her research on his computer.

_When I enter his room, please refrain from reading so much. I do not think I will be capable of splitting my attention to that extent._

He felt her amusement as he knocked on the pilot's door.

An older man answered the door.

_We _are _beginning to look haunted,_ he thought, taking in the man's sunken eyes and cheeks. While they utilized the Chancellor's people for the day-to-day travels, the two men had little to do. If he hazarded a guess, he would assume Jannek had fallen into a spiral of meditation and closing out the pain of the world around him. A shadow of his former self. Gaunt. Dying in small measures.

"Vuron."

"Jannek. May I enter?"

The man stepped back. The second pilot sat on a meditation mat, candle on the low table before him, in their shared quarters.

"I have been informed that Ambassador Sranak and the other negotiators have been... invited to visit the councilors halls during the blizzard. Do you have further information?"

"We were informed by courier. Unmarked shuttle."

"Badges on the courier's armor?" Vuron asked, the fingers of one hand straying to the emblem of J'Mara's house on his own chest.

Jannek blinked at him, seeming to take in the Klingon armor for the first time.

"I did not notice any particular badge. They did not wear sashes like that. Just a braided cord across the chest. Disrupter pistols at the hip."

"Men? Women? How many."

"Three. Male."

"Age? Appearance?"

"Young." His shoulder lifted in a minute shrug. "I did not notice any distinguishing features."

_One can't help but wonder if there _were_ no distinguishing features, he does not remember it because of his emotional state, or species prejudice has innately caused him to be incapable of differentiating between individuals. _

"I require your service. Are you capable of piloting a shuttle across the city? To Lady Bel'tath's city residence?"

The Vulcan tilted his head a moment, considering, then nodded.

_Tell him he will be taking me, love. You should stay here and question the other pilot when he comes out of his meditations. I have private things to speak of with my lady, along with digging for information._

_ As you will._

"You will be taking a Klingon dignitary, and will remain at their landing pad until she is prepared to return. Is this acceptable?"

He nodded. "I will prepare myself. When is transport needed?"

"Within fifteen minutes," Vuron replied, mentally flicking his mate to see how much longer she needed at his computer. "She will meet you at the landing pad."

Jannek nodded again, dismissing Vuron.

Vuron returned to his room, standing next to his bondmate, absorbing data as she did. Enjoying her warm presence. Exploring the process of how she read, compared to his own habits. She saw each word separately, forming sounds from the symbols they represented, then processed the sound of a complete sentence to absorb the data.

She sat back a moment, curious as to how he read.

With a quick switch back to his native language, he scrolled through several pages of data. The Vulcan language flowing, beautiful, incomprehensible to J'Mara's eye at that speed. He took in several lines at once, practiced eyes picking out nouns and verbs, leaving descriptors and connecting words behind. Efficiently plucking out the essence of several sentences at the same time, taking in data without enjoying the style of writing or the aesthetic aspects of the font. Only slowing to read an unabridged line when the pertinent data seemed relevant to J'Mara's search parameters.

"You take all of the enjoyment of the language out of the act of reading."

"And you read political commentary as if it were poetry. Jannek is waiting, _t'hy'la_. Have we retrieved what you needed?"

"I believe so." Her lips claimed his, teeth taking his lower lip while her fingers tangled in his. He sighed into the taste and smells she passed him. How his tongue tasted after drinking the horrible, bitter tea. "I need to leave now. Or I will still get snowed in. It would be much more interesting to do that in your room."

"I do not disagree."

Vuron's hands traced the metal of her breastplate. Evening out where it had shifted from sitting. Checking her weapons. Wrapping her cloak back around her shoulders.

"Privacy, while you speak with your lady?"

She nodded. "If we can."

They walked, shoulders grazing, to the landing pad. Twisting wind, dusted with fat, wet flakes of snow. Peppering her hair, her eyelashes in miniscule ice crystals. Engines of the little shuttle already fired up and ready for them.

"Live long and prosper, my love."

Vuron blinked at her, surprised by her offer of the ta'al.

"Peace and long life," he replied automatically.

_You are expecting trouble?_

_ I always expect trouble. I am making a good show for your pilot._

Vuron's stomach did an odd little flip at her toothy grin.

_Be safe._

He stood in the wind for a long moment, feeling more than the physical cold as the shuttle took his bondmate away from him.


	16. Genetic Diversity

He settled to meditate in his room, taking comfort from the familiarity of it. The smell of the spice tea. The flame of the candle. Centering and separating himself as best his could. J'Mara's mind still tickling. Broadcasting in fits and spurts as her concentration broke. "Not listening" took a good deal of active attention in non-attention.

In one particularly loud broadcast, when the shuttle dipped from a strong gust of wind, Vuron's hands tightened into fists.

_I'm going to die. _

_ You're not in this fucking shuttle, I am. You're fine. I hate your pilot._

_ You're never leaving my side again._

Her laughter burbled over him. _That is not possible. Meditating isn't going to work. We'll both end up in your mind-dojo. Distract yourself. Interview your staff. Read in Vulcan. If you do that fast-reading I won't be distracted. It will be background noise._

Vuron nodded physically. Both trying to resurrect their barriers.

He blew out his candles, changed into his uniform – no need to make his coworkers uncomfortable when not necessary – and did as she suggested. Accounts varied to the expected degrees, but no useful new data. He skimmed video records, but not much useful came of it.

The men were tall, broad, swaggered with the usual pace of their species. They kept their faces turned away, so the only caught sight of long, unbound, curled hair. Possibly coincidence, but unlikely.

His thoughts flowed back to earlier conversations. Pushing concern for his charges off to the side, temporarily. New data would come soon enough, needling at it would only make him more likely to prod along their bond to see if he could get the data _right now_.

With a quiet sigh, he flicked through his incoming messages. A startling variety from Starfleet, including updates on the colony and current tallies of known refugees.

He opened a few, skimming reports.

Several possible planets found – _hadn't they already decided on one? Something must have changed – _and time tables offered for those that needed terraforming to be corrected to Vulcan physiological needs. Temporary housing notices: Betazoid, Terra Prime, Romulus. Interesting.

He delved farther into Romulus' efforts to help. Considering it was one of their mining ships, any offer had the distinct impression of peace offering and pathetically lacking.

Seven hundred eighty one of their people had taken up residence. Six percent of the remaining populous. Had they gone to their close-cousins because of racial fear? It certainly wouldn't be the need to bond, as his cross-species meld. Although, with such a small genepool remaining, perhaps it would be prudent to try to increase the genetic diversity now. Theoretically, their genetics were still quite similar. Vulcan-Romulan children would be indistinguishable from either parent. Emotional control a learned behavior. Ah. Perhaps these few had gone to Romulus for just that. Seeking a way to live without emotional control.

Or-

Genetic diversity.

His fingers flew over the glass panels, his mind returning to J'Mara's confident declaration about her superior genetics.

Accessing the Scientist caste's databanks were above his security level. With no remorse he sent an inquiry over the bond, receiving access codes. He smiled.

Lower level publications opened up to his questing. He selected several interesting genres and queued them to download to his local terminal. Several windows popped up to give him progress indicators. He minimized these and manually sought out genetic data.

Another wall. Above J'Mara's access. She knew Bel'tath's codes. His fingers hovered a moment, but retreated before security protocols alerted on his queries. J'Mara's codes should be inactive – she'd been away from an access terminal for years. He'd be lucky if the queued items would finish before the code was shut down and his bondmate's identity verified.

"Doesn't matter anyway," he spoke aloud to himself, to keep from projecting. "No sperm. No children."

An odd sort of emptiness sat on his shoulders.

Before he could explore the sensation, his fingers sought more information.

Opened up a comm to Starfleet without much forethought. The channel they'd been using for refugees a well used link on his station.

For once, an older Vulcan female met his gaze across the distance of space.

He raised the ta'al in greeting. "I was not expecting to see one of our people answering this channel."

After seeing his people here so sunken and shallow, seeing a bland face full of vitality stood welcome relief.

"Sixty-seven point two two four percent of our refugees have taken temporary residence on Terra Prime. It has been recommended that those able and willing offer their services as volunteers."

Ah. A familiar species answering the comm to help control the emotions. Vuron nodded his understanding.

"I have been out of communication for two weeks, six days and wished to inquire as to present updates. I have been receiving the general-access broadcasts. I am Ambassador Sranak's security officer on Qo'Nos."

He watched as she ran quick fingers over the computer, pulling up data.

"We have additional files for you. Please input your security code."

He did so, and another set of queued data lined up at the bottom of his screen.

"There has been no additional data from your party. At last check in, the Elders wished to known when the ambassador intended to return."

"There have been unexpected delays. When a date has been settled, we will send formal notice."

"Will you be needing transport?"

Vuron opened his mouth to answer the affirmative, but a thread of the bond opened up. Conversation heard by his mate leaking into his ears. Angry conversation.

_I will insure your safe transport. Tell them to expect a squadron between two and seven, depending on how many of my ships I can recall._

The walls flew up again. Noticeably firmer, for the lack of her warmth. She'd been listening, and now she needed all of her concentration on whatever argument she'd been involved in. Hmm.

"Security Officer Vuron?"

"My apologies. My bondmate was correcting assumptions." One thin eyebrow shot up, but she didn't question. "Expect a squadron of Klingon warbirds serving as escort for the Ambassador. We will notify Starfleet with security protocols before we leave Qo'Nos."

She nodded, making note of the change.

"Any other outstanding issues?"

The first of the Klingon databases dinged, letting him know it had completed transfer. And a warning popped up right after it. He dismissed it with a decisive bit of coding so that the transfer continued.

"Actually." A frown plucked at his eyebrows before he could dismiss it. "A question." He never considered asking a complete stranger about procreation before... For that matter, he'd never considered it actively as an adult at all. "I assume that when planet-wide evacuations were initiated, that children were high priority."

The older woman's eyes softened. "Yes. We have a high percentage of orphans. There has been a concerted effort to re-establish family bonds."

Bondmates selected, children taken in, bonds reestablished to try and pick up the pieces of all the telepathic bonds torn asunder.

Vuron considered for a long moment.

"I do not know when our party will leave Qo'Nos, but I would like to be placed on the list for potential adopters. My bondmate is eager to be a mother. I am sterile."

A flicker of sadness passed over the woman's schooled features. "The children have been split between Betazoid and Terra Prime. Do you know where your party will be headed when the ambassador is finished with his negotiations?"

"I assume Terra Prime," Vuron informed, considering the Elders' current location. "If that changes, my mate and I will be able to change routes once he has been safely moved."

Two to seven birds of prey. The mental image he'd seen of the two she had in mind, heavy cruisers with full compliments. He'd been completely unaware of her wealth. No wonder her mating with a low raking offworlder might be disruptive to Councilwoman Bel'tath.

"Forward your most recent health screening, please. If you have any preferred criteria, e.g. age, sex, realms of study, please include that as well. When you return, addition screenings will be preformed by a mind-healer."

Vuron nodded in understanding. Of course they'd want to insure that the adoptive children were placed in homes with strong, positive bonds.

He started his files transferring over subspace. "I do not have a record of my mate's latest screening."

"You can send it when-"

She stopped. Eyes flicking back and forth quickly as his medical records appeared on her screen.

"Ah."

Vuron felt his jaw clench.

"Is there a problem?"

"You are not... the ideal candidate."

"I have secure employment with a diplomat in good standing. My mate has lands and holdings off planet. I have tested well in-"

She raised a hand to stall him.

"I am not in a position to make such decisions. I will transfer you now."

The screen turned black. Irritating music filled his ears.

Three transfers later, he faced an exhausted human woman. Blond hair tied in a loose bun. Streaks of purple, red, and orange tinted thick chunks of her hair. She smiled at him the usual open, human way.

"Hey there, I hear you're looking to adopt?"

"Yes. No formal application has been filed yet. A general inquiry that..."

"Turned into a monstrous goose chase?"

He inclined his head, appreciating human candor.

"When did you get red flagged?"

"Red flagged?"

She sighed, shoulders lifting and dropping dramatically. "You've reached a very strapped-for-cash inner city facility. We mostly took care of homeless and runaway humans until a couple months ago. We've gotten a couple of you're people in, but it's an absolute last resort."

He took in the darkness skin under her eyes. The stained wall behind her, littered with a cork board and many colorful squares of paper coated in cramped scrawl. Messy organization of an office used by many people.

"Last resort?"

Her hand passed over her hair. "Kids brought in by the police. It's this or juvenile detention. I've got a couple of connections, so we try them here... Call it their first warning. If they get picked up a second time-"

Unfamiliar words and thoughts floated through his ears.

"Runaways. You are saying that Vulcan children are running away from our centers?"

She nodded.

"It's tough on the kids. No one wants to explain it to an old human like me, but... hell, I'm sure you felt it. Best I can get out of them was it was pretty dramatic. Having your whole family ripped away, your planet ripped away, then dropped in the middle of a whole new family? No say in the matter, just _Bam!_ Here's your new Mom and Dad."

Vuron blinked at the sharp sound of her hands clapping together to accentuate the issue.

"Ah, sorry, guy. I'm talking your ear off. End of a fourteen hour shift and its rare as hen's teeth to talk to an adult. I'm Jean. Jean Waterman. What's your name? Your mate's name?"

"Vuron," he said. "My mate is Lady J'Mara, of the house of Lady Bel'tath."

She laughed at that. "Mated to a Klingon, huh? I've heard weirder. Well no wonder they red flagged ya."

"Actually, the 'goose chase' began after I sent my medical file for approval."

Her eyebrows went up. Interesting how human's seemed to have more movement in their brows at the center, rather than the edges.

"Well, I guess you'll have to send me the same, but my standards have gotten pretty low. On any drugs?"

"Hormonal supplements."

"Your mate?"

He thought for a moment, not wanting to tug on the bond after all of the strangeness of this conversation. That, and he had a feeling a dead end waited him in very short order.

"None."

"Alright. Education?"

He quoted his graduating scores, then worked out what percentile he finished in, when she blinked at him without comprehension.

"So, graduated, right?"

"Yes. J'Mara is a teacher in her own right. Self defense."

Bubbly chuckling flowed over the comm unit. "Might have her come teach a class or two to the kids then. Employment?"

"Security Officer for-"

Another sharp laugh interrupted him.

"No wonder you mated a Klingon. Housing isn't much of an issue for your people. A human would need a home to adopt, but from the news it sounds like they're working out the whole colony thing. Rumor has it you're getting a hectare a pop. Not too shabby, really."

"J'Mara has lands of her own," he supplied, feeling awkward about having land "assigned" to him without even knowing about it. His family's parcel of land had been small and humble before it'd been destroyed. While mathematically sound to allocate equal portions of land to the remainder of their people, it felt... strange.

"Ha! Finally got your upload. Give me a second, this unit is shit for multitasking."

Her face froze as she, apparently, switched over to review his records.

He prepared himself for the wall.

That didn't come.

"Huh. Didn't think you guys had issues like that. No, not that you don't have multiple genders. I mean, had issues with stuff like that. Whole IDIC thing."

Vuron blinked. "You are aware of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations?"

"Vulcan culture. All the rage right now. You should see the human'net. Bowl cuts are even coming back into fashion." Jean waved her hands. "Getting myself off topic. When you going to be Earth-bound?"

"Not entirely certain. Ambassador Sranak needs to finish his negotiations."

"Nothing like being a slave to the boss-man, huh? Well it gives me time to talk to some of the kids. You're a unique couple. I won't short ya. The fewer bodies in here, the happier I am. Fights have been turning seriously bloody lately, and there's nothing like getting Christmas-colored splatters off of the walls to really brighten my day."

"Christmas-" her jumps in conversations confused him.

"Green and red? Right, nevermind. Look. For all that this is a shit-hole, this is the last stop before juvie. I give them the best chance they got. Half the kids here are here 'cause they didn't like their new parents, or just plain didn't like not having a say in their own futures. Fuck logic 'n all, yeah?"

"So," he prompted, hoping for a clearer explanation.

"I'll talk to the kids here. It's gotta be their decision. Especially if you end up going off-Earth again, which I'm guessing is likely. Runaway Vulcan on Qo'Nos has got no chance of blending in."

"You would prefer for my bondmate and myself to remain on Terra Prime while becoming acquainted? To better facilitate running away?"

"Not exactly the point but... yeah, I guess so. Sometimes running is the only option left to you."

"I am familiar with that sensation. I thank you for your candor."

"Hey, you're welcome guy. You seem pretty stand up. Hey, can I talk to the lil' missus? Be nice to get a handle on both of you."

"To be honest, I have not approached her about this. She wishes children, but-"

She pointed a finger up, then flopped it over. Graphic, but it got the idea across.

"Precisely."

"So, you don't wanna get her hopes up, if nothing pans out?"

Vuron nodded.

"Gotcha. Well, if all goes well, how about I see I can't get a couple of them to get on screen, or do recordings or something? Better if you guys get to know each other before you come all the way over. But final say happens in person, and it's on their terms."

Vuron nodded. "The effort would be greatly appreciated."

"One last thing... these kids, they're not cute and cuddly babies, yeah? Youngest I got is a human, eleven, who's been on the streets two years now. If you know what I mean... hell, maybe better if you don't."

"Vulcan's age on a different scale than humans," Vuron corrected. "An eleven year old human would be more physically developed than a Vulcan of the same chronological age."

"Yeah, that's my point. Older kids. Lots of problems. You ready for that mess?"

Vuron blinked in confusion. "If my own childhood did not prepare me for unexpected complications, then I am not sure what would."

Jean's laughter bubbled up again. "I'll tack on some parenting books for ya then, but you're right, you've probably had more experience growing up quick than most. Alright. I hear screaming down the hall. Good chatting with you! Keep in touch!"

The screen went black.

The emptiness he'd felt earlier now held a burble of nervous excitement. Interesting.

He spent a good hour compartmentalizing the sensation, tucking it out of the way so that he didn't indicate any news prematurely. Earlier irritation over his conversations with various members of his own species easily dismissed. That he'd dealt with for the vast majority of his life.


	17. Shadows

In the quiet of his room, disembodied whispers tickled his ears.

With all of the chaos around him, Vuron craved a quiet afternoon of meditation. Knew that if he attempted it again, he'd be invading J'Mara's request for privacy with her lady, either by inadvertently intruding on that conversation, or by drawing her into his "mind-dojo."

He delved into reports, absorbing as much data as he could as fast as he could. Trying to not allow anxiety take him. Not check growing winds outside or worry about whether she would be stuck in another house until the blizzard passed.

"_This is dishonorable! How does Chancellor Ka'Tra stand for-_"

Vuron's fingers spend through data faster. J'Mara's voice clear in his mind as if she stood next to him.

"_It is done, and there is nothing we can do about it now,_"_ Bel'tath's voice sounded tired. _"_The attack was well timed._"

_Attack?_

A mental door slammed between them.

Curiosity burned. Vuron's search turned from general data to local news. Who was attacked? Someone on Qo'Nos? Another planet?

Nothing. No reports. No rumors. A secret operation, then.

_No._

Private data from Sranak's house filled in gaps. Mostly assumptions, without first hand accounts.

_J'Mara! Answer me. What happened to the ambassador!_

She had no tangible resistance to a pinpoint incursion from his mind. They gasped as one, stumbled as he tore the argument from her mind.

Bel'tath standing over her, shouting in confusion, for a healer, for her guard.

He passed through their conversation just as he skimmed while reading. Opening himself up to proper names, ignoring all else. Speeding through her mind.

Raced past the heated argument about her mating a Vulcan. Noting that Bel'tath had known exactly where Master Chijqa had dropped him, had intended him to find J'Mara's lands. Folded that information away to examine later.

_ "I had planned an alliance marriage for you," Bel'tath had sighed, once J'Mara had impressed upon her the permanence of the arrangement. "The man will be none-too-happy."_

_ "You've tried it before," J'Mara replied, taking a long drag from the bloodwine. "You have yet to suggest a man who could stand up to me."_

_ Bel'tath grinned and toasted with her own goblet._

_ "So. You are a Vulcan's mate. Does that make you his woman?"_

_ The precise words she chose were a touch archaic. Derogatory. Intended to bring up images of servitude. Attempting to rile her underling, her ally, her most trusted warrior._

_ "I am my own person. You, of all people, know I don't take orders well."_

_ "I still don't know why you haven't accepted a council seat. Chancellor Ka'Tra even insisted, before this latest recess, that the offer was still open."_

_ "I have no wish to disrupt the balance," J'Mara had answered, attempting diplomacy. Bel'tath laughed and slammed down her drink, sloshing dark alcohol over her fingers._

_ "A few days with one of them, and you're already starting to talk like them. The Vulcans are not well loved. You will have to watch your back."_

_ "I appreciate the warning." She set down her mug. The move precise and smooth. The liquid hardly rippling at the touch. A subtle show of her muscular control. Implied control elsewhere. Bel'tath snarled. "In fact, this is the main reason I had come."_

_ The councilwoman's lip lifted farther. "You are suggesting that you would not have come to notify me if your marriage."_

_ "I am saying no such thing. Perhaps, I would have waited out this storm at the Vulcan house, or my own in the city, but you would have been notified of the change in due time. No. I came to find out who kidnapped Ambassador Sranak."_

_ "Kidnapped? That is a serious allegation."_

_ "You don't deny it."_

_ "The official report is that he, and his staff, are being given a tour of the major houses. Starting with Ka'Tra's estate, of course." Bel'tath held her unblinking gaze._

_ "Has he 'moved on' to another house yet?"_

_ "No."_

_ "Did he reach Ka'Tra's lands?"_

_ "I doubt it."_

_ "Do you know his current location?"_

_ "No. And I wouldn't tell you now if I did."_

_ "Because you feel my allegiance has shifted."_

_ She nodded. "Obviously."_

_ J'Mara snarled. _

_ "What was the point of all of this? I know you. I know all of the plots you have formed in that twisted head of yours. You always come out on top. That security guard did not find his way to my lands 'by accident.' What was it, plan seven? Twenty?"_

_ "Farther down the line," she replied, leaning back in her throne-line chair. Eyelids hooding over calculating eyes. "An opportunity not missed."_

_ "What did you have to do with the kidnapping."_

_ "Nothing."_

_ "Targ shit!" Her fist pounded into the table._

_ "You are very much like your mate," Bel'tath smirked._

_ J'Mara growled. "You might not have done the deed, but you have your hand in it. What is the plan now, Bel'tath? Planning an attack on their colony? Little honor in that. Defenseless and no resources. No point to it."_

_ "Their colony world failed, actually. You're behind the times. Must be your mate is as well. Interesting."_

_ "Failed."_

_ "Yes. Only a couple hundred on the planet at the time. Seems they had a little radiation storm."_

_ "A radiation storm. What kind of radiation?"_

_ "Solar flare." J'Mara didn't trust Bel'tath's grin. "It seems someone was testing a weapon on their little star, and there was a poor reaction. Only construction workers and gardeners. People that wouldn't be missed. Three thousand workers from other species, though. Starfleet volunteers in particular. Two of their starships taken out."_

_ J'Mara sat down, shocked. "That must have been some solar flare."_

_ "It was some weapon."_

_ "They are not a worthy adversary now. Why does anyone choose to pick them off?"_

_ "Why does any predator choose the weakest members of the herd? Or stake out the weak member to lure in a bigger prize."_

_ "Vuron seems to think that the negotiations were going positively. Why would someone kidnap the Vulcans if this was true?"_

_ "Why indeed."_

_ They exchanged snarls._

_ "So, someone who doesn't want a lasting alliance."_

_ "Our people are driven by war. Why would we be want a lasting alliance?"_

_ "There are other ways to achieve peace. The Vulcans are a strong people, under all that puff and ceremony."_

_ "...strong." Those cunning eyes narrowed again. "Alliances by marriage."_

_ "You've chosen husbands for their ability to give you stronger children before," J'Mara turned back. "Imagine a new generation with greater strength than the last. Stamina in battle unheard of since Kahless himself. Strength of the mind equal to that of the body. The Scientist caste capable of doing more than stealing the technology of other races and modifying it for our use."_

_ "Conquering by bloodline. You will take us back in time."_

_ "Or I shall thrust us into a grand new future for the Empire!"_

_ "An Empire of smooth-faced emotionless curs! A curse we know all too well. And how would you convince these dull bastards to wed our people, hm? Great ballads? Great battles? I doubt anything would move their stony hearts."_

_ "If you keep the unbonded separate long enough-" J'Mara swallowed the rest. Pon farr. The secret so ingrained in her mate's people that they don't speak of it out loud. Not unless absolutely necessary. _

_ Bel'tath's gleaming eyes. She's fishing. Looking for something she can use. Information for private gain, or to sell or trade with another. _

_ "Come, come, Lady J'Mara. Perhaps I would want one of these strong, pale creatures in my bed. It would be an interesting... experiment. Separate long enough. How long? How does one determine if one of those curs is unbonded?"_

_ J'Mara's jaw tightened. She'd said too much. Far too much. Opened up another weakness for a people falling apart._

_ "Information exchanged for information. Who has Sranak now? Are his kidnappers attempting to gain by ransom, or gain by removing him from discussions?"_

_ "He is still on Qo'Nos," she replied, after considering. "If you want any more information, you will have to give some in return."_

_ J'Mara searched what she knew, determining what she could safely share to gain the intel Vuron needed._

_ "They're telepaths. The whole lot of them."_

_ "And?"_

_ J'Mara sighed. "They can't telescope it. Not like a Betazoid. They need to be touching to make it work. But its powerful. Someone skilled in it can make their prey do what they want. Reveal security codes, unlock prison doors. ...Discover an opponent's intentions from a the slightest touch in battle."_

_ A wide smile slowly pulled at Bel'tath's lips._

_ "Chancellor Ka'Tra does not have him, but he approved it. The staff have been moved off world. My sources suggest they've been split in two different groups."_

_ J'Mara's heart raced. She stilled herself, waiting for more. None came._

_ "This is dishonorable! How does Chancellor Ka'Tra stand for-"_

_ "It is done, and there is nothing we can do about it now. The attack was well timed."_

_ Attack?_

_J'Mara's eyes widened at the feel of Vuron's mind in hers. _

_She closed off everything she possessed. Refused to even think._

_J'Mara! Answer me. What happened to the ambassador!_

_ Intense pain doubled her over._


	18. Regrets

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Getting the barn ready for winter has been taking over my life. Luckily (for you) as the sky gets dark earlier and earlier, I get more time to write. So, as long as the roads stay clear, you'll probably be getting longer/more frequent updates!

* * *

Vuron shivered in the dark in his room. The shadow of Councilwoman Bel'tath passed over his mind's eye. Coming around the table. Bending over him – bending over J'Mara – kilometers away. Their voices muted now.

Bone weary.

J'Mara making excuses. Tired from fighting with her new mate. Suspicion turned to a lusty leer.

Predator circling potential prey. Vuron concentrating on strengthening her defenses. Forcing her body upright, shoulders back, chin up. Alert through the remaining throbbing in their minds.

They continued to talk. Bel'tath sitting on the edge of her desk. J'Mara turning the discussion to innocuous topics. J'Mara too angry, too hurt, to focus enough to block, or clarify, the bond.

Vuron took a deep, fortifying breath, and went to collect the remaining house staff. Half plans forming in the back of his mind. Gathering less-than-optomistic data.

The staff assembled in the common room. A farce of the meeting that Ambassador Sranak called such a short time ago. They waited with the seeming of patience for the primary pilot to return. The cook had brought tea. Mugs and pot left untouched on the table in the middle of the room.

They didn't have long to wait. Vuron's innate knowledge of J'Mara's location allowing him to time things so that they simply sat for long enough for Jannek to safely land.

Vuron stood as the engines turned off. Listened as Jannek preformed the lock downs necessary to keep the strong winds from blowing the little shuttle across the ice covered landing pad. Ignored the curious glances in his direction from several of the other Vulcans sitting around him.

"Vuron," Jannek called out, as much as any of his people did. "The Klingon you had me shuttle knows your entry codes. You should-"

J'Mara shoved her way past the pilot, stomping with purpose up to the statue-still security officer. A moment passed, their faces equally blank, before J'Mara drew back and delivered a single strike to the left side of his jaw with her closed fist.

His head snapped up, his weight rocked back on his heels. The gasps of his fellows rang in his ears with the roar of his blood.

He straightened himself, tugging the edge of his uniform jacket down. His mate squared her shoulders, chin lifted.

The answering blow staggered her back a single step. She cupped her jaw, oscillating it back and forth to test its soundness.

"Vuron!"

_Are we good?_

_ For now. We have much to discuss, but in private. For now, our attention should be elsewhere. I believe our doctor thinks I have lost my sanity._

Doctor T'Sai leapt to her feet with uncharacteristic momentum.

"I am uninjured, Doctor." Skeptical eyes examined from all quarters. "I have called you all here because of an important matter concerning Ambassador Sranak. Lady J'Mara, of the House of Councilwoman Bel'tath will be providing assistance and clarifying as needed."

Telling silence met his proclamation.

"Before thee continues with the issue at hand," Doctor T'Sai redirected. "Lady J'Mara is..."

"My bondmate."

Dark, suspicious eyes glanced back and forth between them.

"Thee will submit to examination, then."

Vuron raised his hand, visibly halting the argument he felt on J'Mara's lips.

_She has right to doubt my actions, _t'hy'la_. She shall meld with us; it shall be only a faint skimming. _

_ So I shouldn't fill my mind with the sexiest images of you naked that I can think of?_

Vuron felt his ears heat.

_That would not be an effective way to demonstrate I hold the control needed to lead a rescue mission, my cherished. Nor would she trust you anywhere near our computers._

Doctor T'Sai's eyes flicked back and forth as they communicated. The exchange only took a moment, but the old healer knew what to look for.

"Thee are prepared?"

They nodded as a single unit.

When an elder had checked his and Rellig's bond, all those years ago, to assure that it had formed properly, there had been quite the ceremony, but T'Sai did not give them the opportunity. She stepped up between then, a hand reaching for each temple.

Vuron bent at the waist, instructing J'Mara to do the same, to accommodate T'Sai's height and stiff joints.

Sharp fingers pressed upon opposite cheeks; within their robust bond, each felt the healer's hands on both sides of their faces. A unique sensation for J'Mara. Downright unsettling for Vuron.

They felt T'Sai sink in between them. Vuron shrugging open his mind, allowing her access to the part of him that the healers and elders generally settled into. Any barrier J'Mara might have held mirrored his conscious release and fell away.

A glass wall built up the moment J'Mara's mind flooded out. T'Sai observing, keeping herself separate. Attempting too. Her gasp indication enough at how poorly she withstood the onslaught. The Klingon mind is a strong one. Filled with rich history, song, laughter, love, hate. A heaviness. A purpose.

Fortifying and sturdy in ways that no Vulcan heart, even with bond and family and home to go back to, ever had, or ever might possess.

Vuron reconstructed his mental barriers for her sake, dragging J'Mara with him into the fortress of his mind. Going to the place of his strongest focus. The familiar, strange combination of dojo, desert, and fighting hall building itself around them.

_"A mating ritual?" _T'Sai's voice echoed within their twinned minds. Curiosity momentarily overpowering what was proper, as she pushed. Her mind's eye replaying the punches exchanged moments before. She'd seen this hall within him before, but he felt the examination of the recent additions.

_ "Cathartic release," _Vuron supplied._ "We have each wronged one other. There are critical issues that need to be dealt with immediately. A controlled burst of emotion so that logic can be retained."_

He might have felt a growl through the bond. The oversimplification a frustrating reminder of what was expected within a Klingon mind. T'Sai pushed farther, returning to the task at hand, testing the bond between them.

_ "Thine bond is true," _T'Sai admitted.

Vuron spared the doctor a glance. J'Mara held a staff in her hands, her mind focused on a complicated _kata_ to keep her mind quiet. A _kata _she did not know. One that flowed through his muscles with years of practice. One that she mirrored. Jabbing, blocking, circling in measures.

_ "Thine bond is unnaturally strong."_

She stood impassively to the side, as they began more difficult moves. Attacks and dodges not intended to mirror one another.

_ "Thou has found an even match."_

J'Mara's staff melted away, in favor of an ancient Vulcan blade. Point resting on T'Sai's throat.

_ "You insult my husband."_

_ "A Klingon's passion runs through thy blood,"_ T'Sai commented. Internal eyes still on Vuron. Mind attempting to probe his. The effort only half-attempted. The knowledge that with the flooding of one mind, she would be faced with two, stopped her.

_ "Passion can give strength. Purpose. If directed properly. Tell me. Who else in this room has purpose?"_

A kaleidoscope of thoughts, emotions, flickered like a candle flame in the old healer's eyes.

The shadow of her being bowed deeply, retreating.

Vuron blinked. The suddenness of returning to the common room abrupt. The lost of J'Mara's heat a physical pain. The doctor's body blocked the view to the rest as they reached for one another. Just a gentle graze of knuckles.

"Thou incorrectly uses the term _t'hy'la,_" Doctor T'Sai let out in one long, quiet breath. Words meant for them, but shared with the whole of the room for lack of privacy. J'Mara assumed from rudeness, but Vuron had a higher opinion of the woman. Probably just shock. "I do not know a term that describes thine bond."

"It serves us well enough."

"When we return to... the new colony, a mind-healer shall be called to examine thine bond. It has formed incorrectly."

"It might be a great while before we leave Qo'Nos. Do you think such adjustments can wait that long, Doctor?"

She kept her thoughts to herself on that matter, picking up a mug of cooling tea on the way back to her seat.

"How..." The eyes of the room turned to T'Frau. Her ears and cheeks turned bright green.

"Yes?"

"How does that work? I did not know we could bond outside of our species."

"It is quiet rare." T'Sai sat. Sipped. Taking her time as was her wont. "In order to form the telepathic bond, the other member must be capable of receiving the touch of our minds. I am aware of an individual who bonded with a human, with mixed results. They are considered a null-species; fewer than one percent receptive, half of that with the ability to transmit. It has been hypothesized that bonding with some telepathically strong species, like the Betazoid, would increase the strength of the bond past being able to harness it's power. I have not seen any calculations with the anatomy of a Klingon as the bond-recipient."

"Probably because we are too barbaric for your _staid_ tastes."

"J'Mara."

"Altern Vuron is fit to serve," T'Sai said without preamble, cutting to the heart of the matter. "His bond is strong and his mind is centered. He is more than qualified to take command."

_Take command._

_ At least one of your people has a lick of sense._

"Thank you. Jannek, please join us. We have much to discuss. As some of you may have assumed, and what my bondmate ascertained, Ambassador Sranak has been kidnapped by persons unknown for reasons unknown. This is his third day missing. Because no ransom has been sent for his return, I can not help but assume that they hold him captive for another reason."

"Torture. Information, probably."

Dark eyes stared at the Klingon in their midst.

"It is a possibility that we can not ignore."

"Who has him?"

"I don't know yet, but I have more sources to tap." J'Mara answered. "I'll send a few messages out, but they won't reply over the comm channels where they can be traced. In person meets will have to wait for the winds to die down, if they're as bad as they're supposed to be."

_The rest, _t'hy'la_? Or should I tell them?_

"Sranak is still planetside. The rest are not."

"Chancellor Ka'Tra had a hand in it," Vuron filled in where J'Mara's allegiances wished to avoid. "We do not know if he planned it specifically, but he approved it. He would not want Sranak found on his lands, nor would he want the ambassador found before he was ready for it. Thus, it is more likely he has Sranak safe in one of his compounds, or that of a lord under his thumb, and sent the others away to minimize complications."

"Minimize complications. You mean, you believe the others are already murdered."

Vuron exchanged a glance with the second pilot.

"We will operate under the assumption that they have not been."

The rest became more animated, offering ideas. Organizing plans based on hypothetical data.

_Do your people always do this? Plan out for every contingency?_

_ To some extent. It is gratifying to see this much activity. We will have to make other plans. They are fine people, but they do not have the training for this kind of mission. The pilots, perhaps, but they're civilians. No military experience. T'Sai has seen much in her years. I value her opinion._

_ But we will be up late tonight trying to figure it out for ourselves, hm?_

_ It is already late tonight._

She chuckled, much to the confusion of the others.

After the meeting eventually came to a close, T'Sai remained in her seat as the rest of the staff moved to go to their respective tasks. Meditation, sleep, preparing for battle.

"A word alone, if you would."

Vuron exchanged a glance with his bondmate.

"You do realize that anything you say to me, she will hear as well."

The aging doctor offered a single nod of her head.

"I'll meet you back in your room," J'Mara said aloud for the doctor's benefit. "I have contacts to squeeze for information anyway."

Vuron nearly told her that he hadn't switched the UI back to Klingonese, but stayed himself. She'd know, or she wouldn't and would be able to comprehend his language through their bond.

"I am concerned for thee, Vuron."

"You are not the only one."

"Sit with me."

"T'Sai-"

"Sit."

Ice cold eyes brooked no argument.

He sat where she indicated, next to her on the sofa where her assistant had been minutes earlier.

"I worry that thee turns from the teaching of Surak. Thy bond, while strong, will not effect a positive influence on thee."

Vuron sighed, attempting to gather his thoughts.

"I do not turn aside his teachings. I simply... I am taking what has been meted upon me in measures."

"You are allowing yourself to wallow in your baser emotions. You are biased."

Vuron felt his jaw tense. Felt J'Mara's intense need to run back down the stairs and challenge an old woman for her opinions.

"I do not wallow. I am attempting to find a balance. Look about you," Vuron indicated the now-empty room. "Our ambassador has been gone for three days. Three days with no word to his good health but hearsay. You examine my bond, and call me tainted, when those around you have been so purposeless that they did not even question what has been happening around them.

"We had all been following Sranak blindly. Ever since Vulcan's destruction. He has been the only one with purpose, with driving need. I believe the best descriptor would be 'obsessed.' Is it not possible, that our blindness, and his obsession, opened us up to such an attack?"

She sat silently for a long while.

"Thee walks a dagger's edge, child."

Vuron nodded. "I do not argue that fact."

"Come. I will offer what aid I can."

Her hands reached for his psi-points. He bent out of habit and allowed her the bond. As light as a feather's touch, she skimmed him again. This time seeking any change with the physical distance between him and his bondmate.

"_I will apply an external barrier between your minds. It has the strength of spiderswebbing. It will hold, as long as one does not pluck the right strings. The surface contacts will cease, as will the 'mirror' effect, as you have thought of it. If you meld again, my barrier will dissolve and you will have to return to me to reinstate it._"

"_Your propose to break our bond?_"

"_Not break, just shield. Your mind might be structurally sound, but it is difficult to place the trust of thirty lives in your hands, when such a... foreign mind potentially influencing you_."

"_You gave your approval, only two hours ago._"

She actually sighed, her sagging shoulders tugging the hands on his face.

"_With so few of us left, we must do everything to retrieve as many of the negotiators that we can_."

The unthought significance, the genetic diversity of the twelve negotiators held more cultural value than one ambassador.

"_If there is need, will I be able to call out to her?_"

"I doubt even I have the ability to stop that, if the need is true," she said aloud. "But it will also break my barriers."

Vuron closed his eyes a moment, exploring the cold darkness within his own mind. Familiar. Serene. Aching with loneliness.

Something tumbled to the floor above them. Pounding footsteps trailed through the floor above, echoed down the stairs.

J'Mara slid to a halt in the common room. Her posture one of readiness, the muscles of her forearms, her neck, her cheek, corded taut. Nostrils flares. Eyes wide.

In a lesser creature, Vuron might assign the emotion a baser label; but his bondmate would not succumb to panic.

"What-" J'Mara growled, stalking to the doctor. "Have you done?" Fists clenched on the silk robes of T'Sai's robes, dragging her forward. Her sharp teeth bared in all-too-obvious threat. "What did you do to my husband?"

T'Sai stared at the Klingon a long moment before responding, in fits and bursts, in her language.

"I have applied a barrier, so that you can not further contaminate Altern Vuron. It remains to be seen if I will recommend the bond be permanently broken."

J'Mara's lips pulled back further into a feral grin. "You will find I do not respond well to threats, Doctor."

"J'Mara-" Murderous eyes turned on him. "I consented to the procedure. It was a logical precaution, considering-"

"Damn your logic."

Her shoulders sagged, hands released the doctor's robes with an audible crack of her knuckles.

"I will leave you to your contemplations."

His mate's hands clenched a moment as the elder Vulcan turned to leave.

"Perhaps we should take advantage of-"

"How dare you."

"How dare I?"

J'Mara snarled at him.

"How dare you!" She punched him in the arm. "First you attack my mind and ransack me for any spare piece of information you can find, after I'd expressly asked for your privacy, then, without even warning me, let alone ask for my opinion on the matter, you shut me out completely!"

"I would have assumed that the circumstances of the latter complaint would, if not eliminate, at least mitigate, the transgression of the former."

"Just because I don't want you tearing through my memories doesn't mean I don't want you at all."

They stood in silence, staring into one another's eyes. There was an Earth phrase one sensei used on occasion, to describe an unintentional, but accurate, statement: "hitting the nail on the head."

J'Mara sighed and touched her temple with a pained expression.

"I was at your computer, sending out a message, when... I guess I just realized that I'd been looking at your damn loopy language and not mine or Standard. The buzz of your mind humming along in the background, all those damn equations, minute bodily functions, plans and figures, points of weakness, attack stances and defenses... and then, nothing. No whispered words in the back of my mind. No comforting presence. You feel like a warm desert wind in my mind, do you know that? I've never seen a desert. But now I dream of dunes and soft sand and volcanic stone. And then just _pfft!_ Nothing. Nothing, do you hear? The only thing I could think of was Rellig... how you felt his death."

"You thought I'd died?"

"What else was I to think? One minute you were there, the next you weren't! You were just downstairs. All I could think was, 'I'm too late.' I was only a few steps away, and I couldn't protect you."

"I am quite capable of protecting myself."

She huffed angrily. "Of course you can. But two hearts beating as one can defeat whole armies, when apart they were but nothing."

Vuron took a moment to consider the myth of Kahless finding his mate, how their combined strength killed all their enemies. Including their gods.

"We have already determined that our hearts beating as one will end in you having a heart attack, and possibly my death from oxygen deprivation."

"That is not the point," she growled. "Arg! I can do nothing with you. You emotionless cur!"

Vuron blinked as she stalked off, back up to his room, he assumed.


	19. Emotional Complications

A/N: To TOSoldtimer, thank you so much for such high praise! Hearing that FAFH is original (especially from someone with 40 years in the genre) is probably the best compliment I've ever had about my work. Though, hearing anyone is enjoying this is also a big boost, heh. (And no, that isn't a shameless request for reviews... much!)

Trigger notice for this chapter: Conversation about surgery and doctor disagreements.

* * *

Vuron remained downstairs for a time. He wasn't necessarily nervous about returning to his room, and his bondmate, but without her presence in his mind he couldn't gauge how poorly she'd taken his latest actions. To be truthful, angry shouting, while outside his realm experience, spoke of a truer reaction in a Klingon.

Emotional reflection did not seem to be a normal reaction... then again, he'd mostly been dealing with politicians and Master Chijqa, whom one could argue didn't show the actions of a "true Klingon" either. At least, not the typical reactions of the individual one might pass on the street.

If he went to the kitchens, it was on the urge of his own biological functions. Not to scrounge up whatever faux meat Chef had been saving for those public dining occasions when the vegetarians at the table had to blend in with the rest of the diners. Not to assemble a peace offering on a platter. Not to shield himself from what ever violent emotion awaited him on the other side of his own door. If the tea, and bowl of reheated plomeek soup was an afterthought, he didn't put much weight in that fact.

The back hall, the stairs, the pathway to his rooms, all silent save the quiet pad of his footfalls.

He stood outside of his quarters for several minutes.

He had never lived with Rellig. Never ate a meal in contemplative silence, or discussed the painful minutia of politics. They had not shared each other's warmth beneath a pile of furs, or tested each other's mettle on the sparring mat.

After two weeks, given a certain measure for his Time, he'd felt closer to this Klingon than he'd felt with any of his own kind.

And now a wall more solid than this wood and iron stood between them.

A barrier that made him hesitate to open his own door.

How many times had he taken such a small invasion of privacy for granted? The fact that a gentle query, barely even perceivable by his mate, allowed him to know if he might be intruding, if she expected him, even _what_ she expected of him.

His door slid open, his glowering mate meeting him eye to eye.

"How much longer do you plan to stand out here?"

"You heard me?"

"No. Smelled you."

She turned on her heel, plopping back into his seat at the computer terminal.

Vuron set his tray down, scooting the previous out of the way. The bread that'd been sent up earlier had gone cold, untouched.

He examined his mate out of the corner of his eye while he settled the eating utensils, kettle and cups. Even with her mobile face, expressive hands, attempting to determine her inner thoughts by her outwardly projected articulations threatened to be treacherous interpreting.

Dark eyes flashed at every movement he made, arms crossed tightly over her ample bosom, obscuring nearly every inch of the cutout over her heart to his gaze. Even her lip curled up a touch over her fangs in a snarl.

"What is this?"

"A bit of warm food," he replied with purposeful vagueness. "It is late, and we haven't eaten since the package your cook prepared for the trip back."

Her mouth tilted somewhat, then settled back into a frown that lined her mouth more deeply.

"It doesn't smell quite right."

Vuron nodded a little.

"We do not have real meat here, my cherished. The taste is rather similar."

"I don't trust your sense of taste," he replied, but her arms unfolded and she poked one artificial slab of targ ribs with a bare fingertip. "Your attempt to prove your worthiness as a mate is admirable, considering."

"You would prefer I go out into the storm and hunt you a fresh targ?"

Her smile tugged up one side of her face and sent a warm little shiver into his gut.

"No, not in this blizzard. Before you settle down to your... whatever that is, switch your blasted computer back. I was in the middle of a communiqué when you threw that bad javelin."

Vuron stepped behind her, mindful of their personal space, and quickly switched the UI back.

They ate in silence. Vuron taking silent record of the number of items she touched with her bare hands after handling the food. His fingers itched to drop his spoon and retrieve a cleansing cloth.

_You've eaten with your fingers_, he reminded himself. His inner voice seeming to echo about in his skull. _Then again, you were no where near anything that might be damaged by food detritus._

A muscle in his jaw twitched as she forcefully jabbed a greasy thumb against the screen to send something.

Her eyes met his over the desk. A slow frown pulled at her lips again. Vuron tipped up one eyebrow in silent query.

"What does that mean?"

"To what are you inferring?"

"Your cryptic little," she waggled her hand around her temple. "Eyebrow thing."

"I was curious what caused your frown."

She sighed dramatically. "Typical male. Can't simply ask what's wrong."

He felt the skin around his eyes tighten in a little smile. Even while attempting to pick a fight, she inadvertently complimented him. He could grow quite fond of being disparaged for being a "typical male."

"It is temporary, isn't it?"

He blinked at the hop in conversation.

"The bond. This damn block she put in. It _is_ temporary."

A statement. A question. A plea.

He nodded. "Yes. She assures it is temporary. She also recommended we see a mind healer."

"What would a mind healer do?"

"Form a more permanent correction to our bond."

J'Mara stared at him for a long time while he spooned up reheated plomeek.

"You say 'permanent correction,' like this will be the way we are for the rest of our lives."

"I have no way to estimate what the results of a skilled mind healer will be."

"I've noticed a difference," J'Mara decided after a moment. "I can't tell what your thinking." Her hand reached for his, then stopped abruptly and returned to her lap. "I thought your facial expressions were subtle before, but now... now you are just as stone-faced as the rest of them."

"You can still kill me and be rid of all of the complications in one go."

She blinked at him. "You're joking with me."

"I have found that humor, when used in stressful situations, can be effective in defusing social hurdles. Especially with members of other species."

Another staring fit took them before J'Mara returned her attention to the computer terminal.

"Maybe this is for the best," he heard her grumble in a low voice. "Actually have to get to know you, instead of just _knowing_ you."

"An interesting distinction," Vuron considered. "But apt, considering that your people don't usually have such insight into their mates."

A sharp glare gave him the hint that she hadn't intended for him to hear, let alone respond, to that.

"Do your people divorce?"

Vuron blinked at the question. "Not frequently. Because we are bonded at such an early age, and grow with our mates, there is often little cause. I have heard of it happening, in cases of abuse or infertility.

"Should I make inferences based on this inquiry?"

"Idle threats. Here. I'm finished. Do you need to do anything, or should I shut it off?"

"An item or two."

They exchanged places. Vuron wiped his keypad and screen down with a cloth before switching the language of the UI again, for the sake of his own reading speed and comprehension, and began sending out messages of inquiry and planning as he needed to.

He attempted to focus on the work in front of him. The occasional sound dragged his eyes off of the brightly lit screen: J'Mara roughly stacking the dishes, plopping the trays into a corner by the door, sloshing more hot tea into both of the mugs, dragging off the stack of fabric coverlets from the bed, stomping about the room, then flinging them right back over, toeing off boots and tossing them against the wall.

"You are an _inconsiderate_ husband!" J'Mara shouted.

Vuron blinked up at her. She'd removed her armor, leaving herself topless and bedecked only in her tight woolen leggins.

"I am a_ tired_ husband who is attempting to finish up a few last necessary correspondence."

She snarled and scratched at some unseen itch at the base of her skull.

"How can you be so blind to the needs of your wife?"

To that Vuron had no answer at all.

J'Mara stamped up, her bare feet smacking against the cool floor. Her hand snagged his wrist, dragging him up and away from the terminal. With all the roughness usual to her people, her fingers dragged against his in a crude, plainly understood gesture. He shivered at the arousal kindled up in him from such a rough kiss.

"Ah," he said in understanding.

Her eyes flicked down, staring at their joined hands. Bashfulness?

"I am sorry, my t'hy'la. Without the bond, it is difficult for me to tell the difference between an argument for argument's sake, and an argument intended as foreplay." He stroked her fingers in return with his usual finesse, drawing out another shiver from deep within his belly.

"It is strange," J'Mara said in response. Vuron's hand stilled at the sudden quiet in her voice. Not the low growl that she used when she intended to speak to herself, and certainly not the loud, authoritative tone she typically used. "I don't feel anything."

He ran his index and middle finger to the tips of hers, and back down again, paying special attention to every fold of her knuckles, every scar won in battle.

"You feel nothing?" He questioned. His own voice a tad breathy and deep.

"No." Her eyes met his again. Not bashfulness. Confusion. "That... that little touch had been such a turn on. I loved that I could do that, in public, and it felt like the most intimate contact I'd ever had. Now... now it's just your fingers, icy and dry, touching mine." She shivered as if physically chilled by his touch.

Vuron withdrew. A bucket of ice water might do more for his libido at the moment than the look his mate gave him.

"Kiss me," she demanded, her eyebrows drawn down in fierce concentration. She snagged his silk labels in her fists before he could protest. Her lips gnashing hard against his.

When she didn't find what she sought she withdrew. Dusky fingers wiped a trail of green blood from her lips.

"J'Mara I-"

"Don't. Just... don't. I need to think. You have more work to do?"

He nodded.

Her fingers returned to her lips as she turned to the low bed. Without further word she climbed in, cocooning herself in the feather ticks and woven blankets. He reached for the strong upward sweep of one shoulder, only to stop himself. She shivered involuntarily as his hand nearly fell onto her naked skin.

He grasped the trailing edge of a coverlet instead and tucked it up to cover the exposed flesh and returned to work.

Without her providing visual or auditory distractions, he found his work go both faster and agonizingly slow. His thoughts drifted back to her still, curled form again and again. Not just the physical presence of her, but the absence of her warmth within his mind.

He clicked off his computer, once he realized his fingers had been hovering over the keypad without decision for eight point five minutes. Pointless to keep the machine running and waste power without motivation to continue. He'd taken care of the more important things. Preliminary reports to the Elders on Terra Prime could wait; especially when he did not possess enough accurate data.

His gaze swept over his sleeping mate for a moment, just a shadow in the dark, before he decided it might be more prudent to retrieve meditation materials.

He lit his fire pot and some incense. The woven reed mat rubbed familiar, uncomfortable ridges into his rump. Long, deep breaths pulled him into accustomed patterns of contemplation.

Swirls of concerns floated in and out of his conscious thought. Various plots for rescue attempts, data in various minutia... a thousand little observations about the other being in the room.

As his mind wandered to his mate, he found that she flooded his thoughts. Her being as large in his mind, even devoid of their bond, as her personality itself.

Her warmth. Not just her core temperature, but the fiery temper, the unconventional acceptance...

Acceptance, that is, until he violated her privacy. Her trust.

What of their bond?

The opportunity to examine the bond, their relationship, unhindered lay before him. T'Sai judged correctly; their bond had formed incorrectly. He knew this. It was too strong. They should not loose one another within the meld like they had. Without care, they might very well kill one another.

But...

Could he willingly give that bond up? Live, like this, not feeling the other, even as she curled up in dreams only a meter away?

Live, as he had, with Rellig? Compartmentalized, even within his own mind? Barricading off every thought, every sensation, because of unseen censure?

No. He had no wish to return to that way of life.

Mating with a Klingon... unforeseen complications might very well be his way of life, for the rest of his life.

Hundreds of if-then statements plotted out within his mind, creating a road of possibilities that stretched into eternity before him. Some he could trace well.

If he allowed T'Sai's block to remain, found a mind healer to break it permanently, then J'Mara would return to her lands in the mountains. Return to her pupils, her own private studies. He? He would follow the delegates off-world. The Vulcans would not remain here longer than necessary. Travel to Terra Prime, where the Ambassador would make his report, and everyone would be reassigned.

If he melded with his mate, tore down the artificial barrier, he'd loose the confidence of those whom rely on him. Without anyone with military experience to organize the efforts, the rest of the delegates were certainly lost.

He abandoned that line of if-thens, along with a hundred others. Too many variables to reliably predict.

If he did reinstate the bond with his mate, he might delve into the intrinsic thought processes of the natives of this planet. He'd touched her mind often enough, knew that the very foundation of her mind had been built in ways that he barely grasped. This knowledge, this structure, predicated every nuance of her people. Being aware of it, actively aware rather than simply cognizant, might mean the difference between successful negotiations and...

"Vuron."

For a long moment, he didn't realize that his name had been spoken aloud. He took a deep breath in, attempting to reconstruct his mental shields and recompartmentalize all the complications before he had to release the breath again.

"Yes, J'Mara?"

"You're keeping me awake."

He blinked his eyes open.

She was staring at him, in the weak light given by the single flame. Her cheek cushioned by her hands. Only her face visible for all the bundled bedclothes. In the weak, wavering light, she looked quite a bit younger. Her eyes opened a little wider than usual. Her lips pressed in a taunt line.

Apologizing wasn't logical, nor did her language hold the vocabulary for his intended words. For a long moment, the ghost of those possibilities stretched out in his mindseye again.

Several leaps down one probability chain, he saw the two of them sitting across from one another at a table, some restaurant, maybe. Not on her homeworld, obviously not on his. She knew Standard, enough to be bold in conversation, but the gaps in her knowledge had felt like voids in his own mind. Fluency in Klingonese, Standard, Vulcan, and a handful of others had been prerequisites for his employment. So, they would sit, across from one another, speaking Klingonese on some alien planet. Occasionally delving into one another's minds for a concept that neither had vocabulary, or social experience, for. He would sit, eating in small, measured bites while she joked, laughed, flicking bits of skin and bone from greasy fingertips. Would she be content with this view of domesticity?

"Vuron."

"It was not my intent to keep you awake." The closest thing to an apology he could muster in the borrowed language. He blew out the tentative flame. "Is the incense disruptive, or may I keep it burning?"

He listened to a few of her deep breaths in the dark.

"I like it. It smells like you."

"In all probability because I use this particular incense nearly every evening for meditation."

"Come to bed."

His bed felt small, when shared with someone else. He reclined on his back, waiting still and silent while J'Mara settled herself around him. She snagged his left arm, stretching it out perpendicular from his body. After a good deal of wiggling, her shoulder finally tucked into his armpit, her cheek against his collarbone. Her body pressed along his side, somehow working a way so that their hearts, each beating its own independent rhythm, thrummed close enough to one another that he could feel her pulse through his side. She tucked the layers of fabric over them and gave a dramatic shiver.

"Brr. You're freezing."

"You are radiating heat," he observed in response. Indeed, her greater body temperature had warmed the bedclothes to the point of near comfort.

The sigh that played along his collarbone might have been one of contentment or frustration.

J'Mara's palm slipped between them, pressing over the beat of his heart for several long moments, before moving upward to trace the scars that bisected his chest. The gesture familiar, but off now that he didn't feel the sensation of touch through her mind.

"No one else has ever touched me like this," he admitted aloud, cupping her hand in his.

"I know." Her fingertips circled over a nub in the scar tissue. "What's this? I thought you Vulcans had superior science crap."

"Shunts. One on either side, to drain out excess fluid. Even with laser scalpels, when one has enough tissue removed, fluid can build up around the surgical site. If too much collects under the skin, it will not be able to connect correctly to the exposed muscle layer beneath it."

"Huh," she said simply, her fingers seeking, and finding, the hard nodule of scar tissue on the opposite side where that shunt had been installed. "What was it like, having them removed?"

He flexed his left hand open and closed a moment. He had a mattress wide enough for their two bodies, pressed together, but that left the perpendicular arm stretched out into the cool air. With an awkward shrug to get his arm under the covers, he curled his arm around J'Mara's waist, tucking her even closer against his side.

"Given a few days, when we are reconnected, you could look into the memory of it. Experience if for yourself, if you want to."

"So you _will_ meld with me again."

Vuron nodded, his chin brushing against the soft curls of her hair. "If you wish it, my cherished."

Her fingertips returned to their exploring caress.

"Tell me about it, now. Husbands should tell stories to their wives, not make them shift through memories."

Vuron contemplated this demand. A possible solution to the undercurrent problem.

"I petitioned for sole guardianship of myself a couple years before I came of age. It was difficult meeting the requirements, but without it my parents would not have consented for the surgery to be preformed."

J'Mara's hand stilled as Vuron spoke. She probably intended to ask only about the surgery itself but... the process for preparing himself, mentally, physically, financially, that had been just as large a part of it.

"They did not approve?"

"No. But, as an independent adult, they had no say in the matter. As part of that process, I had to move out of my family home, acquire work, housing, and finish my schooling. Because it is considered an elective procedure, I had to save my credits to finance it by myself."

"What work did you do?"

He briefly considered going into the enforced time at the clay mine... and discarded it.

"Anything that did not interfere with my educational requirements. Courier, janitor."

"Menial labor."

Vuron nodded.

"How long did it take you to save enough credits?"

"Long enough that I was in the age of majority, chronologically." He shook his head, rueful at his young self for being so impetuous. "If I had been thinking logically at the time, I would have remained with my family, still finished my schooling and taken the jobs I could, and saved the credits I spent on rent and food. Nevertheless. I achieve my goal somehow.

"A month after receiving my diploma, I began interviewing doctors. It was fascinating how few understood my request. Even among my people, it is more common to request an enhancement of such endowments, rather than a reduction. A couple refused to talk with me, once I had explained my requirements. One stated that he was willing to preform it, once I'd reached the age of one-hundred.

"'You must live half your life with dissatisfaction,'" Vuron said, mimicking the man's nasal voice. "'Before you can be assured that you do not wish to live this way.' Another was willing to remove half of the mass, to make them appear smaller, for the same price of removing them in toto, and then repeat the procedure a decade later, with a repeat of the charge as well, when I was assured that I wanted them gone completely."

"You found someone eventually?"

He nodded again.

"A skilled doctor, half the world away. She was very considerate. Listened to my every concern, and had an answer to every question without looking it up in some obscure medical text. She had done the procedure before, several times."

Vuron's thumb traced one thin edge of a scar himself, remembering the woman's artificial face. Considering her profession, it made sense that her lips had been enhanced, the wrinkles of her brow removed, her face rejuvenated and hair colored. At the time, his young self had been rather intimidated by the buxom, statuesque beauty, but unable to place the unease he felt at looking at the face that had been made too symmetrical over the years.

"Female doctors have often proved more difficult to communicate with, so it was doubly interesting that he was the only one willing to work with me, after a host of males."

"Why would women be more difficult?"

"A human doctor, a woman, suggested that subconsciously, they see me as rejecting all that is female, and thus feel I am attempting to insult them. It is hard to attribute such emotion to one of our people, but the pattern is there, nonetheless."

"The surgery itself?"

"I was placed on a table that was off-horizontal by perhaps ten degrees, to aid fluid drainage. The doctor placed massaging pads under my legs, to reduce the chance of blood clots. A heated blanket was tucked around me. One of the assistants administered a painkiller, which made my blood feel very cold. I woke up several hours later, and they were gone. I was painfully cold then, and for several months afterward."

"Cold? Is that a side effect that Vulcan's have to surgery?"

"No. I'd had several kilos of biomass removed. It had acted as an insulator for my ribcage. Without it, I perceived the exterior temperature with greater accuracy than I had since I was a child. Until my nerve clusters rewired themselves, and I became accustomed to the change, I wore a lot of sweaters."

"And now you're the big strong man I'm growing to love."

Vuron's hand tightened around J'Mara's, unsure how to respond to many points of that statement.


	20. Rude Awakening

A/N: Trigger warning: Um. Not sure how to word this one. Physical harm instead of emotional one? I guess? The next chapter will be full adventure and Klingon-fun.

* * *

A quiet knock on the door pulled Vuron out of a deep, restful sleep.

"A moment," he called out.

J'Mara grumbled as he slipped out of her warm embrace. With a glance at the mess from the previous night, discarded clothes strewn about, dishes tumbling away from the tray, he retrieved a fresh uniform from his storage locker.

"Jannek," Vuron greeted the pilot. He remained in the open doorway, not inviting the man in. Unsuccessfully blocking his gaze from the chaos behind him.

"Altern Vuron."

Jannek's eyes strayed down, and to Vuron's left, hovering there for several long, awkward moments.

"Report, pilot."

"Ah, yes," Jannek's eyes snapped back up to his. "Subspace message came in for the house. Answering a request made by General J'Mara."

"What do they want?" a rumbling voice called from behind him.

"The man will not state his business to me," Jannek replied, keeping his eye contact with the security officer.

"Patch the incoming message to my computer terminal."

"Yes, sir."

Jannek nodded, turned on his heel, and disappeared down the hall.

"_General_ J'Mara?" He closed the door behind him.

His mate stretched languorously, the covers falling away to expose dark skin, all the way to her thighs.

"Is my husband jealous?"

"Jealous?"

"He was staring at me."

"Jealousy is illogical in this circumstance. It is highly unlikely that he has interest in you as a potential mate, thus my position is not threatened. You are attempting to distract me, _General._"

Her grin was one of triumph, until another stretch tumbled her loose curls over her face.

"You never asked my rank. I've given up active campaigning, so not many use the title anymore."

He sat at his computer terminal, booting it up while listening to her.

"This is how you just-so-happen to have several starships, ready to be at the ambassador's service?"

She hummed an agreement. "Ships taken in battle, honorably. The men on board are my own. From my house, or students of mine."

"Is there anything else I should be aware of, before I open this channel?"

"Your hair is askew."

He flattened his hair with his fingers before selecting the blinking icon on his terminal.

A growling, furious male Klingon filled his screen.

"Another damn Vulcan."

"Qapla'," Vuron greeted, settling back into his seat. "You wish to speak with General J'Mara?"

"Yes. I didn't expect to be greeted by yet another stone-face, pale alien after being on hold for so long-"

"How long you wait is none of my business," J'Mara answered. She stepped up behind Vuron, barely covered in a loose wrap of his bedsheets. He drank in the sight of her, the appealing way she'd casually brushed her thick mane of hair over one shoulder. The uninhibited confidence in her posture.

"General. It is good to see you in such... good health."

"You as well, General Morr'gath. The years have only added to your rugged intensity."

Morr'gath, an extraordinarily aesthetically displeasing man, his face torn with plasma burns, beamed at his mate over her compliments. Vuron found himself disliking the way the man's knowing eyes passed over his mate's sinuous form.

"J'Mara?" Vuron interjected.

Her heat pressed against his shoulder. Her fingers met his outstretched digits.

"I have been remiss, General Morr'gath," J'Mara's voice held a smile. "This is my husband, Altern Vuron."

"Never thought you'd be one to marry one of those..." Morr'gath trailed off as Vuron lifted their joined fingers to his lips in a kiss more recognizable by a Klingon.

"You know my strategy in battle; never give up an advantage when offered one."

The man's face softened into a fond smile. "Well now I know why you've come out of sabbatical. When I first saw the signature on the message, I thought someone'd gotten to your codes."

"Hmph. Well, as you see, they are my codes. What word do you have for me?"

He nodded. "The Chancellor's people are tightlipped over this-"

"Maybe they've finally learned after that scandal with the Trill woman."

"Hmm. Regardless, I cornered one handmaiden and... persuaded her to let slip his whereabouts, at least."

"Good. And?"

"I got a message through. After a bit of... persuading, I got an answer. 'The Chancellor graciously declines the offer of a meeting with the honored general from Councilwoman Bel'tath's house."

"That is all?" J'Mara growled.

"Yes. That was the only answer his people gave."

She snarled and pounded a fist against the table.

"But, I'll do you one better, General. For a price."

"Now you sound like a Ferengi."

The burned Klingon's face pulled into a lopsided grin. "Perhaps. There is rumor of war."

"There is always rumor of war. Civil war. Raids. Great battles for territory, resources, love. You will have to be specific, Morr'gath."

His eyes flicked over to Vuron, and back to hers. "No, not in front of the smoothface. Let's just say, I want a place on one of your ships."

"My ships do little more than run currier, Morr'gath. No great honors will be won under my flag."

"'Currier' runs. Hm. So, is that why they're coming in to Qo'Nos at maximum warp? From what my spies tell me, the _Tel'pret_ nearly burned out her core passing through a plasma storm. Not very smart, pushing them like that."

"The _Tel'pret_ is bringing in a shipment of locar seedlings. I can't seem to get them growing up on the mountain side. I figured if I brought them in at the two leaf stage, I'd have better chance at a good crop. And you know how _sensitive_ locar plants are. Only takes a day outside their atmosphere before they whither away."

"Locar seedlings. In the middle of the worst blizzard the capital's seen in four decades."

"So I'm planting early."

Tinny laughter rattled Vuron's speakers. "Fine. Fine. Of course you're planting early. Just remember, when you need another _gardner_ to help pull _weeds_, that I'm able and willing."

"Well, if I find myself in need of a _gardner_, I will know who to contact."

"Good. The Chancellor is still at his city home, on the northern side. He got caught in the storm before his shuttle could take off. Qapla' General."

"Qapla'!"

J'Mara sagged against his shoulder.

"Well then, that's where we go next."

"To the Chancellor's home?"

"Yes. Won't do us any good to talk with him, but if I can sneak into the servant's quarters, I'll get more reliable information."

"The servant's quarters? Not the warrior's barracks?"

"His warriors will recognize me. I've taught, or commanded, a good number of them. The servants, however," she shrugged and allowed his blanket to fall, revealing her graceful, muscular form. "Now tell me, why the show for Morr'gath, but not for Jannek?"

"What 'show' are you referring to?"

She finished tugging up her leggings before returning to his side long enough to pick up his hand and touch her lips to his knuckles, as he did minutes before.

"Ah."

"'Ah,' nothing. The next time you say Vulcans don't feel jealousy, I'm going to kiss your knuckles and you'll remember that silly little show. And I will be glad for it."

"Why be glad about my emotional responses?"

"Because you being jealous means I'm worth being jealous over." She tugged on his earlobe and returned to arming herself.

He watched her body twist and bend until she'd covered up with her woolen underthings. He sighed, contemplating a hot breakfast and a good measure of spiced tea, before collecting his own underthings.

Layer upon layer he tugged on, frustrated with himself for not hanging things better. The snow had melted and settled into a cold dampness in the creases of a good measure of his things. He shook out an overtunic, eyeing dark patches in the thick material around the elbows and wrists before tugging it over his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Arming myself," Vuron replied, once his head escaped the wool.

"I can see that. _Why_ are you doing that?"

"I am going with you."

"No, you aren't. I'm not sure if you saw the weather reports yesterday, but this blizzard is settling over the capital for four days, maybe five."

"Yes, I saw."

"Then why," she snagged his wrist before he pulled on the leather armor. "Stop that. Why are you arming yourself? You're not going out in that!"

"You think I am going to let you go out on your own, in that?"

"You're not going with me to Chancellor Ka'Tra. You'll loose toes in the snow!"

"Lucky for me you are not sexually aroused by my toes."

"That's not the point! What are you going to do, walk up to his house with me, then stay outside while I sneak in and question his people? You stand out like a red targ in a herd."

He tugged the last of his armor out of her hands, and continued dressing himself. She snorted at his stubbornness. Vuron handed her armor over as he came across it, and eventually she finished assembling her own armor.

The last thing he pulled on was the fur lined, hooded jacket. He didn't latch the gorget.

"The hood hides your smooth forehead, but not your chin or your hands," she grumbled.

He nodded and commed the doctor. T'Sai knocked on their door a few minutes later.

"Doctor T'Sai," he greeted, allowing her in. At least, by the time she entered, he'd collected the dirty trays, made the bed, and gathered the remains of his soiled clothing.

"What do you need?" The early morning, or the obvious urgency in the body language, keeping her Standard less formal.

"We are going to gather further information," Vuron answered, keeping purposefully vague. He didn't want any of the ambassador's people hurt for what J'Mara planned. "I need my skin darkened."

T'Sai's eyes thinned to distrustful slits, but she fumbled around in her medical bag.

"Do you think you can change my face too?" J'Mara asked.

"I can not change your markings. But I can increase your natural pigmentation. Decreasing it is outside of my abilities with what I brought to Qo'Nos."

J'Mara chuckled. "Only a little darker, then. Enough that someone who knows me might not recognize me at first glance. Same with Altern Vuron. He doesn't need to be as dark as I am."

She modified the setting on a dermal regenerator and began passing it back and forth over his face in large, sweeping gestures.

J'Mara let out a long, low whistle. "That's impressive."

"No, _this_ is impressive." T'Sai brought it back up to his forehead and the beam passed in quick back and forth motions up and down several times before she did another set of sweeps from hairline to collarbone.

"Hands too," J'Mara prompted.

Vuron held his hands out, now able to watch as the first sweep took him to the darkest sun-kissed tan he'd ever received as a child, and a second pass took him a few shades darker.

"The tone isn't right," he noted. "Too yellow."

"Klingon blood is red. I do not have the ability to cover our green blood."

"It works well enough, to my eyes," J'Mara answered. "You just look like a sickly engineer who's been around one of the bad warp cores a few years. Have anything for his hair?"

"No. Unless he plans to shave it. I can increase the hair growth when he returns. If he returns."

Vuron frowned.

"Is there anything I can say to the others?" T'Sai asked.

"No," J'Mara answered for him. She sighed, staring at his computer terminal for a moment. "No, I do. There's a battle cruiser on its way here, with two scout ships as escort. I'm not going to attempt another contact with them. It might give away their position.

"When they arrive, they will give you a code, in Vulcan. I can't even say it now. 'Trust logic, it will lead you home safely. Do not trust logic, it lies under the knife.' However it's translated, in that formal version of your language."

"An odd statement."

"I wanted something that no one would guess. When the captain beams down, he will tell you this statement. If anyone else comes and does not have the pass, kill them. My captain will take everyone still in this house off world. To the human homeworld. Or the Betazoid homeworld. Where ever you'd like. Trust them. They're seasoned warriors."

T'Sai straightened up. Her passive, cool eyes meeting J'Mara's in a challenge as old as time.

"Thank you."

J'Mara nodded. "Tell everyone to pack quietly. Carefully. No special movements or actions that can be visible from outside."

T'Sai nodded to both of them. "I wish you success."

"Thank you," J'Mara replied. They watched the doctor as she gathered her things and left without further word. "I think that was the most Klingon thing I've heard from her."

"I agree."

Vuron stepped over to the small mirror he'd equipped the room with. Not much larger than the area needed to check his hair; he grew up hating mirrors, distrusting the lies that they told with no remorse.

"The effect isn't perfect, but head on with your hood up, it'll work."

T'Sai had painted on the shadows of a ridged forehead that didn't exist. He lifted up the neat line of his bangs to examine it closer. Indeed, viewed straight on, the chiaroscuro effect was effective enough. He tested his angles, twisting his head this way and that, discovering how much he needed to be able to see from each eye to determine that the individual looking at him would see what he needed them to see.

"The hair ruins the effect."

"It does," J'Mara agreed, sweeping her hands through his hair to tug it away. "Do you have some hair cream? Maybe we can pull it back. Make it look like you have a neat braid, or something."

"No. T'Sai had the correct idea. I will need to shave it. I have seen plenty enough warriors with clean pates. It is only hair."

She nuzzled a cheek on the back of his head a moment before pulling away and retrieving the d'k tagh from his scabbard.

He removed a few layers, not wanting to have hair snippets irritating his skin, or the evidence of being freshly shorn about his shoulders. He sat at his desk, her fingers quick and a tad rough as she pulled one handful after another taunt enough for the blade to catch. Eventually, she'd removed enough that she finally wet his scalp with cold tea and scraped from forehead to nape, ear to ear, until her fingers only met smoothness.

Vuron scrubbed his exposed skin with an old shirt until he no longer felt the itch.

J'Mara snickered to herself in a corner.

"Yes?"

"I think T'Sai should stick to her doctoring."

He returned to the mirror. Frowned over the results. Instead of a dark crown, he now owned a nearly white one. His ears stuck out like handles to a tea mug.

"Just keep your hood up... and we'll have T'Sai color the rest of that before we go."

She wiped a bit of hair that he'd missed and assisted his redressing.

"Do you think you can do anything about his ears," J'Mara asked T'Sai, once they cornered her in the kitchens. "They... stick out so."

The doctor frowned over them as she worked the dermal regenerator over his scalp. "I can remove them, I suppose. If I scramble this unit some, I can make it look like scar tissue. Or maybe the cook can take a hot poker to his skull. Would that be satisfactory?"

"Hm. A hot poker might look like he was branded. Can you make it look like a plasma burn? Of course, we'd have to find a way to make it look reasonable that he'd have a burn on both sides of his head."

"You know," T'Sai said, slamming down the regenerator on the table and turning to glare at his bondmate. "For a creature who thinks she is in love with a Vulcan, you have some interesting ways to show it."

J'Mara grinned, a low growl rumbling her throat. "I do love him, as illogical as it is. And disfiguring him would make him more likely to live through this insanity. I'd rather a living mate with no ears than a dead one."

T'Sai blinked, all of her steam instantly gone.

"May I have a say in this?" The two women turned to him. "They are my ears, after all."

J'Mara nodded after a long moment.

"If I remember Doctor, you have a small cryostasis unit? Incase any of us ah... lost a body part in some misunderstanding?"

"Yes. For fingers and the like, if they were chopped off in a Klingon ritual."

"Right. So... cut them off and cauterize the wound. If you keep the ears in stasis, you can reattach them when I bring back the Ambassador."

Her eyes softened a minute amount before pressing a hypo against his neck.

J'Mara took a seat on the bench with him. She collected his hands and clutched onto him tightly.

"Hey... can we meld before you do that? I... I want to support him while you cut off body parts."

"No, my cherished."

He tightened his fingers around hers and closed his eyes. T'Sai hovered behind him, waiting for the painkiller to take effect. He felt the pulse of his bondmate through his sensitive fingertips. The passage of her breath past the bare skin at his temple. Meditation might be prudent. Unattainable, but prudent.

At best, he tucked the rising whisper of panic into a tiny box and tucked it into the farthest closet of his mind.

"Are thee prepared?"

Vuron let out a long breath.

"As prepared as I can be."

He didn't feel anything, other then the occasional tug. The sound of his skin sizzling, however, echoed around in his skull. The occasional tinny pop and drift of smoke to his nose proceeded every clench of J'Mara's hands.

"A moment more to finish cauterizing."

His bondmate's hands shifted then tightened again as smoke filled the room. Smoke, and the smell of cooked meat. _His_ cooked meat.

"I will retrieve water to clean the mess."

"No," J'Mara shouted. Her hands released him with a quick forcefulness. Vuron blinked his eyes open. She'd lunged upright. Reached over his shoulder to stop the doctor before she turned. "I will do it."

"I will leave you to his care, then."

He listened to her bag shut. The quiet whisper of silk as she left the room. The puttering about as J'Mara opened one cabinet after another before finally snagging a huge soup pot and filling it from the spigot.

She stood behind him, some coarse cloth dragging at his neck. Her warmth touching his back.

Her hands trembling.

He reached up and caught one, pulling it away to examine the cloth. Stained quite green. He swallowed several times.

"Vuron... I... Oh, my husband."

She collapsed into his lap. Arms reaching to wrap around his neck, flinching away, going around his middle instead. She didn't look him in the eye.

He held her tight until her arms went slack around them.

"I know you have seen worse, my cherished," he whispered around the knot in his throat.

"I... I have. But being wounded in battle is different. It isn't bending to the knife like an animal offering it's throat for the slaughter. Your face did not even twitch."

"A Vulcan can fold away pain and discomfort when needed," Vuron conceded. "But T'Sai gave me an analgesic the only discomfort I experienced was minor. If this change to my appearance keeps us both alive, then it must be made."

She nodded against his chest.

"I don't think I'll be able to eat meat again for a while."

He tightened his grip a moment longer before releasing her completely. "We are wasting daylight. We should leave."

"Damn cold Vulcan. Damn your control."

"Indeed."

J'Mara took a moment to wipe the rest of his blood away.

Her hands trembled too much to do up all the clasps on his cloak, so he took over. Glad now for the gorget, since even in the temperature controlled setting of the Ambassador's rented house, he felt very cold indeed.


	21. Playing the Rogue

"You will be able to direct our path?" Vuron asked as they preformed final checks at the back door. She frowned at his chest for a long moment, before opening his cloak to remove the house badges from his sash. She took her own off as well, tucking all of the various bits of metal into some hidden pocket.

"I think so."

Vuron tilted his head a moment in consideration, then retrieved a general-use Vulcan tricorder from one of the closer storage areas.

"This has a compass, along with a homing beacon for this house."

"If we're found out, this will be the last location _I'll _be running to." Her hands still shook as she reached for his hood, tugging on the wool and leather to assure herself of its security. "Last chance to meld with me, Vulcan. Even I can hear the wind howling out there. There won't be any other way to communicate when we go out in that mess."

Vuron shook his head.

"I know." She heaved a large sigh and gave one last check of her weapons while he tucked the tricorder into a secure pocket. "Come, my love. To battle. For glory."

Her words were correct, but there was no battle fire resonating within her voice.

He snagged her gloved hand in his, gave it a squeeze, and keyed the door's access code.

The wind immediately tugged and rushed them out the door. Even the hydraulics had to argue to shut the mechanism.

Swirling particulate clouds of varying densities washed his eyes out with white. A strange twilight took over the capital; not yet midday, but the storm both blocked out the majority of the sun's direct rays, and yet the high amount of reflectivity filled the world with a diffused glow.

A strong hand gripped his and tugged him in a direction. He followed, keeping his grip on his bondmate.

He assumed they took main roads, to start with. The layer of snow below his feet looked just about the same as the other side of the road, or the sky above. Occasionally they passed a streetlight, the glow increasing the local illumination by degrees before disappearing to nothing.

The farther they went, the deeper the cold seeped into his bones. The generalized numbness from the hypospray wore off with a tingle of his extremities, sensation returned in a painful burn, then slowly ebbed away again with the impression of thousands of needles jabbing open nerves.

Utilizing parts of his consciousness that he usually reserved for control during hand-to-hand combat, or long distance shooting, he sped up his heart rate and focused on opening up the capillaries in his extremities. The rush of his blood gave him a temporary flush. Temporary relief from the cold.

As they passed under a gateway, manned by some unfortunate soldiers, J'Mara pulled him into a alcove, out of most of the wind's influence.

She swatted frozen mucus from where it'd solidified under her nose.

"I'm cold enough to turn to an ice cube," she grumbled with a grin that nearly split her face. "How are you?"

"How far away is it from here?"

"At this pace? Another couple hours. At long as the wind keeps the roads clear."

Vuron sighed and succumbed to an autonomic shudder. "I will survive."

J'Mara removed her gloves and fiddled with his cloak. Warm hands enveloped his cheeks.

"You're not as cold as I expected. Doing that Vulcan thing, are you?"

He hummed his agreement. Even with the adjustment, her skin felt... nearly hot against his. Her thumb grazed his bottom lip. He felt an eyebrow lift.

"Don't do that, once we're in Ka'Tra's land."

He blanked his face again.

She frowned, opened up each of their cloaks, and pressed her chest against him. Shared her warmth.

"That face won't work either. Think you can put on a scowl for me?" She tugged at his face here and there until she smiled at the results. "There. That will work."

She snuggled deep against him, tucking her face against his neck and wrapping her arms around his back. Well, one arm. The other slipped lower until she gave his backside a squeeze. He jumped a little at the touch.

"What was that for?"

"I'll be treating you like a engineer scab next time I get to touch you. I figured I'd enjoy you while I could."

He wrapped his own arms around her, careful not to dislodge their cloaks and release their combined heat.

"You're worried."

"How could you tell?" she asked his collarbone.

"It is unlike you to be this quiet, or to seek so much body contact. Your moods have been alternating swiftly from one extreme to another."

"This is going to be difficult."

He nodded into her hair. "The probability for our success is extremely low."

"But if we're going to stop a war, we've got to try."

He froze.

"Stop... a war?"

She pulled back to stare into his eyes. "Yes. I thought you'd figured that out."

"No."

J'Mara sighed and glanced back out into the snow behind them. "Starfleet is weak. Their fleet has been cut in half. Its largest supporter all but gone. Vulcan's new colony destroyed by an 'unknown experimental weapon.' No ransom call was given out for an Ambassador, or his staff. It's a wonder that the Empire hasn't gone up in arms yet."

Vuron let his head fall back against the stone behind him. Watched the gentle swirls of snow that filed in to their little space.

"I hadn't even considered that possibility."

"I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong."

"And if you're not? Then what? Will you follow Bel'tath? Take your ships into battle against the Federation? Against my people?"

Her fingers stroked his cheek again, drawing his attention back down. "One day at a time. First, we get your people off world."

"And me?"

"We'll see how many enemies we make today first," she replied with a grin.

_War._

They bundled back up and J'Mara led the way again. This time Vuron didn't pick her hand back up, just kept close to her four 'clock so that she didn't loose sight of her dark silhouette in the snow.

Relations with the Klingon Empire had been strained since before the founding of the Federation. Humans and Klingons seemed genetically predestined to quarrel.

Vuron didn't doubt that the attempt at a trade agreement from Vulcan had been the first step in some years-long plan to bring this warrior culture into the fold. A collection of pacifists and explorers held no interest to them now, but with the influx of medical technology and modern science, the export of vital goods and services...

But now, with the safety of the highest ranking Vulcan on this planet threatened, not just threatened but destroyed by the very man who'd vowed to protect them, there was no chance that the elders would extend the hand of friendship again.

No wonder Ambassador Sranak fought so hard, after Vulcan's implosion, to secure any resource at all. Secure that first line of trust, in the hopes of averting... war.

And the two of them caught in the middle.

"Romeo and Juliet."

"What?" J'Mara yelled over the roar of the wind.

Vuron shook his head. Even if he did explain the reference, it'd be pointless. She wasn't some idiot to poison herself in an attempt to confuse the enemy, and he wasn't some mushy lovestruck child to stab himself without pulling out a tricorder to check for vitals before assuming that the love of his life was dead, rather than just unconscious.

He reached for her hand again, gave it a squeeze, and pointed ahead.

The remaining hours were cold, blinding, and deafening. As they moved into the outskirts of the city, the drifts grew. Cold water filled his boots as the snow reached his thighs. He shoved along beside his mate, unwilling to follow in her track incase they ran across any of Ka'Tra's men.

She made a gesture eventually, pointing off towards another archway. He nodded and checked his weapons as they walked through.

Someone had been sweeping the path here, at least. Snowdrifts rose to meet the very tops of the high walls that surrounded the Chancellor's land, but only a few inches slowed their progress.

J'Mara lead to a secondary path, her back bowed against the wind. They passed a guardhouse without being stopped. Dark buildings loomed through the haze.

They were admitted with nothing more than a knock on the door.

A wave of moist heat hit Vuron full in the face. The smell of cooking meat followed once his nose thawed sufficiently.

J'Mara threw back the hood of her cloak and shook off a good measure of the snow. Vuron attempted to mimic the shake and set the facial expression she'd molded his face into earlier. He kept his hood up for the moment.

"You here with the gagh? Ka'Tra's just about had my head over this preserved stuff."

"Sorry, no," J'Mara said with a chuckle. "Just refugees from the storm."

The grey-haired cook eyed her a moment. "What were you doing out in this muck anyway?"

"Councilman Gour," J'Mara spat. "Had us deliver some letter to Bel'tath. Who knows what's so important in this storm. Had to land the shuttle since the _Lord_ never sees fit to actually pay for sensor parts."

The old cook laughed. "He is a cheapskate. You're lucky you didn't crash the thing."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," J'Mara said, slapping Vuron roughly in the chest. "Had his best engineer in the ship with me. Man's been trying to get in my pants for ages. Too bad the only action he saw was landing that blasted G-47."

"Oh, he sent you in the G-47? Sure he's not trying to off you?"

"Heh. Just point me in the direction of the mugs. Turk? Bloodwine for you?"

_Turk? Really?_ He nodded his head and sat where the cook indicated.

"Got to get the Chancellor's food up," he grumbled. "But your welcome to warm yourselves."

"Ka'Tra's still on the grounds?" J'Mara asked conversationally. "Figured he hightailed it with the rest of the pompous bastards as soon as the snow started to fall."

The cook grunted agreement and ladled some indecipherable concoction into a large serving platter. J'Mara, her hands full of two overflowing mugs of bloodwine, took a seat next to him. He took one and tilted back about half of the volume and slammed the metal goblet onto the table before him with the appropriate slosh of alcohol.

Servants in fur and wool filed in and out to gather all the foodstuffs. None of them spared the strangers a second glance.

He wondered how J'Mara knew that a couple unmarked strangers, in the home of one of the highest ranking Klingons on the planet, would not be searched, or questioned, or even looked at with any scrutiny.

"So, is Gour keeping to his city house in all this?"

J'Mara snorted. "What do you think? He was probably the first one to run. Doesn't even have the decency to take his staff with him to the mountains. We're lucky central power is still up; our generator's been dead the past seven cycles."

A couple plates appeared before them. Simple food, but hot. Vuron blinked down at the offering.

"Eat, can't turn down Kahless' hospitality," J'Mara said around a mouthful.

"I've a suckling targ to bring up," the cook said, pulling the very thing from the oven. "There's more stew in the pot if you want more."

With that, he disappeared up the stairs.

"Here, give it to me," J'Mara said, snagging his plate. "It'll be suspicious if we leave an full plate."

She grinned and scooped up the choice bits of meat.

"Why?"

She nodded, understanding. Her eyes flicked one way, then another.

"Surely you remember the story of Kahless and the stranger in the storm? Kahless welcomed a stranger into his house, in the middle of a torrential hurricane. 'He is a spy!' his guards proclaimed. 'He will poison our food, poison our wells.' But Kahless did not fear a _single_ man, and offered him food, and wine, and a warm dry place until the storm blew over. His generosity was rewarded on the next day. The stranger threw back the hood of her cloak, revealing a woman of such beauty and strength that it took the breath away of all the warriors assembled. And Kahless touched her womb with his magic staff and she became fertile and great alliances were made between powerful houses."

She waved her hands in a come-along gesture. "It is gratifying to see the great houses following the example set by Kahless, is it not? Especially in such terrible blizzards."

Vuron nodded and finished off the last of the bloodwine. The alcoholic content might not effect him like it did his bondmate, but as a vasodilator it served well enough.

"Come, I think we've leaned on our host's hospitality long enough."

Instead of heading back out into the storm, as no doubt the greasy smears on the door panel J'Mara left for the cook indicated, they slipped down a long, poorly lit corridor.

J'Mara lifted a hand, pausing them. Heavy footfalls passed overhead. She waved him forward the moment they passed, into a stairwell. He lifted an eyebrow and waited a moment until she joined him.

"Up or down?" he whispered.

"Down."

Below held the Chancellor's food stores. An entire wall lined with barrels of wine, sacks of grain stacked as tall as his eyebrows, the bodies of several animals hung from hooks on the ceiling.

J'Mara headed for some heavy wooden boxes.

"Come here, we need to get you out of those clothes."

"Why?"

"No need to obfuscate down here. The kitchen will be bugged, but not the storage locker. Not much point. 'Guests' are only invited in there.

"If we're going to be sneaking around, we should be doing it in servants garb. Not good armor like I've decked us out in."

"Won't it be fairly obvious that we're not his servants?"

"Pfft. No one looks at the help. Here. Just put pull this tunic over your armor. We'll toss the cloaks out into the snow on the way back up. If someone comes down here and finds things that don't belong it'll be as bad as finding us."

He pulled an ugly, oversized grey wool tunic over his leather and metal. She did the same and tied her hair back in a quick knot.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Find a computer terminal while the lord is eating. If he's busy in the main hall, then we'll have a few hours to poke around. We need to find out what property he has the Ambassador on."

Vuron nodded. "And where he's sent the rest of the delegates."

J'Mara frowned as bundled up her cloak.

"Yes. If we can."

She touched his cheek in passing, and led the way back up to the ground level. They took another corridor to a second exit, tossing their cloaks and bat'leths into a mound of snow. Vuron felt bare without the press of metal at his back; he wondered if his mate felt its lack as well.

He followed her at a respectful distance, duplicating her quiet footfalls, pausing as she paused to allow clusters of armored warriors to pass them in the halls, bending his head and not making eye contact, even when one big man clipped his shoulder.

They found nothing of use on the second level, but on the third J'Mara found a library of sorts. Vuron eyed the stuffed animal heads and weapons that lined the walls while she booted up one of the computer terminals.

"Keep an eye on the door, would you?"

He mumbled an agreement and found a place in the shadows where he could keep lookout without being seen himself.

A faint glow illuminated her scowl as she worked over the machine. The sound of her tapping fingers fell heavier and heavier until finally she slammed a fist into the panel.

"Nothing. Nothing! No secret communiques. No cryptic messages. Nothing at all. Sneaky bastard is actually being _intelligent_ for once."

"What does that mean?" Vuron asked, once he returned to her side.

"That _means,_" she spat, then began furiously wiping down all traces with her borrowed sleeve. "That we need to find someone to interrogate."

A muscle in Vuron's jaw clenched. "You are speaking of kidnapping one of his men. That does not sound very honorable."

"Ka'Tra opened up this avenue first."

"Who, then? And where would we take them?"

"Your ambassador's house certainly isn't equipped. Bel'tath will stay neutral as long as she can... kidnapping one of Ka'Tra's men is tantamount to declaring civil war."

"If he discovers it," Vuron whispered, disgust curling in his stomach as an idea formed. "What if one of his men gets... lost in the blizzard?"

"What? Leave him to die in the snow?"

"No, but I can go into his mind and remove his memories. He will simply be found, disoriented and lost."

J'Mara eyed him as if he'd changed places with a stranger.

"That does not sound very Vulcan."

He nodded once in agreement. "No, it is against some very important laws. But, there is no more Vulcan government, and the needs of the many supersedes the needs of the individual."

She shut down the computer, plunging them back into darkness. "Fine. Who do you need?"

"You tell me. I've never infiltrated a Chancellor's house before."

"The pilot who took them off world, or the men who collected them."

"Will they not be with Sranak and the others?"

She huffed in frustration.

"Who, then?"

"Ka'Tra," Vuron suggested.

"Kahless, no wonder I love you." Her fingers snagged his a moment before her lips crashed into him. "Come. We'll have to go back downstairs before we can get to his great hall. For once I'm glad that idiot in his barracks courted me."

Tension vibrated through her body as they slipped back the way they'd come. More and more armored men passed them as they traveled through larger, better lit areas. J'Mara snagged a tray from somewhere and shoved it into his hands. She motioned for him to remain against one set of stairs while she disappeared just long enough to retrieve a immense pitcher filled with heated wine. She grinned, kissed him on the lips again, "For luck," she whispered and lead the way once again.

Much like J'Mara's practice arena, the main room of this keep was lined on all sides with long corridors that led off to other areas, stairs at the corners up towards living quarters, and down to the kitchens in the next building.

J'Mara led them along three of the sides, shoulders tucked in, head down, and meek as they passed one set of guards after another.

Three sets of doors on the long sides, two on one short side, one on the other. Each entrance bracketed by a guards, armed with phase pistols along with the ceremonial swords and spears. Eighteen men, sober and prepared.

On the last short side, with the sole door, one guard stepped away from his place, stopping his mate with a hand on her forearm.

"I haven't seen you here before," he growled.

"I'm new," J'Mara answered, keeping her head down.

"There are no new servants."

"I'm new to this, to serving," she amended. Her eyes flicked up, then down quickly. Her weight shifted, her toe shifted the way he preferred – to get into, and behind, an enemy's defense. The other guard took a step closer as well.

"I've been kept as a _personal_ servant for a while," she said, her voice tilted low. Her bottom lip caught between her sharp little teeth.

_Oh._

Vuron relaxed a touch, realizing just how she intended to get behind their defenses.

"A _personal_ servant, eh?" The man laughed loud. J'Mara's skin flushed, her hands tightened around the pitcher, which she now clutched to her chest. "So he wore you out and now you're serving the filth."

They were both stepping closer to her. One reached for the pitcher, the other reaching for her ass.

She flowed like water around them, sidestepping behind and around in a swirl of leather. Vuron had the second one, the one who'd intended to grab his bondmate, by the wrist. Metal platter dropped to the ground in favor of his d'k tahg pressed unseen into the man's armpit.

Her high tinkling laughter echoed in the dark hall.

"I might be worn out, but I already have another man in my bed, gentlemen."

Vuron pressed the point tighter into the man's body, the stiffness in his captured wrist describing just how much he felt the blade. They glared at one another over the man's shoulder pauldron.

"Your an ugly bastard to have caught her eye," the guard hissed.

"Might be ugly," Vuron agreed, twisting the guard to the side just enough that the first man wouldn't see the falsehood of his browridges. "But I'm good at keeping the kitchen knives sharp."

The guards growled and Vuron scowled until his jaw hurt; attempting to meet their low rumble would only out him.

Finally, the man without a dagger pointed at his heart broke into a deep laugh and slapped Vuron hard on the shoulder. The Vulcan jumped back, dislodging the blade before he accidentally skewered him. He quickly retracted the d'k tahg's side blades and tucked it under the stolen wool.

"Brave little man," the first one chuckled. "Then, you'd have to be, to keep a slippery one like her, eh?"

Vuron grunted agreement.

"Go on, get in. The wine's bound to be getting low," the second one growled.

Vuron retrieved the platter and followed J'Mara into the room.

The guards closed the door silently behind them. Laughter and song echoed around them. A huge stone blocked their view of the room, layers of expensive embroidered silk swept off and away in both directions.

"Behind his throne," J'Mara whispered into one ruined ear. "Those two didn't know me, but even with my skin darkened the Chancellor might recognize me. Take the pitcher, fill his goblet, then move to the others. I'll go around the far side with your tray and collect dirty dishes."

He nodded. Eighteen guards ringing this room, and he could discern at least seven separate voices from here. Surveillance first.

Their fingers grazed as they exchanged items. She took a moment more to gather some dirt and rub it into his cheeks and along the collar of the servant's robes. With a frown she nodded him off.

He took a deep breath to center himself and reposition his scowl.

Vuron shouldered his way through the layers of silk. His eyes swept the room in a quick, desperate scan before he turned to the steps leading up to Ka'Tra's throne.

He'd positioned himself even taller here than his position in the High Council's chambers; twelve steps up to the carved stone he lounged in. The Empire's emblem carved into the stone, beneath the stylized flying osprey that marked Ka'Tra's own house.

Drunk, and singing. Off key, not that anyone was going to argue his interpretation of the latest opera. Several platters of food tumbled haphazardly about him. As if they'd been delivered to rest on the arms of his chair and some enthusiastic gesture, or displeasure, had sent them tumbling back down.

So drunk, in fact, that he did not question his new, ugly servant as Vuron offered more wine. The Chancellor just smacked his lips, let him fill the goblet that had been hardly touched. He tossed it back, then gesticulated with a hearty laugh for him to fill it again. Vuron waited a moment to see if he intended to do this again, but Ka'Tra waved him back down the steps to take care of this guests.

Vuron forced his body into motion. Forced his gaze to move to the next councilman at the table at the bottom of the steps. Forced his eyes to absorb the information flooding to him through the periphery. Did not look for his mate. Did not reach for his Vulcan phaser hidden away. Did not scream his rage or gut the men he'd been staring at across the negotiation table for months.

In the middle of Ka'Tra's great hall, a second seat of honor had been assembled.

Amid all of the finery of his powerful, established house, the long tables surrounded by drunken revelry, the ancient tapestries covering the walls, the servants weaving this way and that to avoid being knocked over by the shoves and punches of Ka'Tra's men. Talamak's men. Kurath's men. Fr'guS' men. And the councilmen themselves.

Vuron fixed his snarl as he stepped up to each of these great men. Each of these leaders of their houses. Stared at them. Met their hazy eyes, their lazy grins. Surprised, and not, that they failed to recognize him.

Refused to allow his gaze to turn to the center of the room, to the second _honored_ seat, until the pitcher was empty and he could disappear into the shadows.

_Ambassador Sranak._

Stripped of his robes, he sat naked on a metal stool, on a short platform. High enough that the whole room could see, knew when to cheer, as a Klingon stepped up to pick up a lash and swipe it across his aged body. They took turns. None cutting into him more than a couple times. His parchment thin skin blossomed green with the barest touch.

They laughed. Jeered. Spat in the Vulcan's unmoving face. No, not unmoving. He was mouthing something. His weight rocking back and forth subtly, until the touch of a whip or crop took him again, made him rigid with pain.

"Vuron," J'Mara whispered against his cheek.

The Ambassador's head snapped up, black eyed glaring at him.

_Run._

Sranak's head swiveled forward again, his body once again upright and waiting. The move nothing more than a twitch to their captors, but Vuron knew he'd heard his mate. Saw the word he mouthed clearly now.

_Run. Run._

Over and over.

_Run._

J'Mara's hand covered his. He looked down. Stared at their joined hands. When had he pulled the d'k tahg? When had he sprung the blade open? His fist shaking with strain.

She squeezed him again, forcing his eyes up. She shook her head no and tugged him. Back into the shadows. Towards a different door.

His mate pried the weapon from his hand before anyone saw, bodily shoved him from the room. Forced a heaping tray of refuse into his hands. Took another one herself. Led him back down long, dark hallways, spiral stairs, until all was quiet again.

"I know," she said.

"Know what?" Vuron spat.

"I know that they must die."

She met his gaze with a placid calmness.

"No," Vuron corrected. "They will not. They will not, because even now Sranak prefers pacifism to retaliation. He told me to run."

"What?"

"'Run.' Run. Ad nauseam. Regardless if we had any chance of getting in there to rescue him without killing ourselves, we'd be declaring open war. Don't deny it. Not civil war. Not some pointless little skirmish between houses. _Vulcan_ declaring war against _Qo'Nos._ A war Vulcan can not win. Never could."

"So, what? You admit defeat? You leave him to _that_?"

Vuron punched a wall. Hell, it felt so good he did it again, and again until green splattered his knuckles.

"Vuron. Vuron, love, please." J'Mara caught his fists in hers. He snarled at her.

"He's lost, the other delegates are lost. We should leave. Get on your damn ship and disappear while we can. Go warn the Federation to expect Ka'Tra to take the advantage while he knows he has it. If he ever breaks Sranak..."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Planning for defeat. Even your ignorant cleaning servants back at Sranak's home had more hope than this."

Vuron pointed back up in the direction of the great hall.

"You saw that. Three councilmen. The Chancellor. Torturing a man that they'd openly admired and argued with for months. Surrounded by a feast, that I'd guess has been going on the entire time the Ambassador's been missing, if the mess on the floor is anything to judge by. Where's your people's honor now, hm, my cherished?"

She stepped back from him, her eyes dark.

He flung his arms up. "You know, I should have listened to you earlier and succumbed to my emotions at the beginning of this. Wallowing in defeat seems to be about the only thing left to me."

"No... not exactly. Let's get our cloaks and bat'leths."

He grunted his agreement.

"You know, there's acknowledging fear, and there's surrendering to it," she whispered as she led down yet another strange hallway.

"I surrender, then."

"No, you don't. You wouldn't be this angry if you did."

They fell quiet as several more warriors passed them on their way up to the feast.

"Where are we going?"

"Barracks first. By my count, most of them are at the feast."

"Wonderful."

They had to run through the storm to get to that outbuilding. Indeed, it stood nearly empty now. Only a few younger men sat on their bunks sharpening weapons and oiling armor. Obviously not ones J'Mara knew, since she met their curious gazes without comment or deflection.

There was a separate storehouse and kitchen in this building. The kitchen cold and disused, thanks to the massive feast a hundred yards away.

She indicated a few wine barrels; they lifted them as a team, bringing them closer to the massive stone oven.

She stacked wood, laying it for a long, hot fire. Handed him tinder and flint.

"I do have my phaser," he grumbled.

"Energy weapons will be noticed. Just hit your dagger on that 'til you get a spark."

Smacking the steel against the stone in a shower of uncontrolled sparks _felt good_. She glared at him until he tapped in a more sensible manner and got the fire going properly.

"Hopefully no one will notice the flint is half the size now," she muttered, taking the stone from him before he flung the whole thing in the fire.

While he'd been working on that, she set several vats to boil. Thin bits of cording tracing one direction, then another.

"Come, we've only got a little while before that all goes up."

She tied the handle of the door with another bit of cordage in a slip knot on the inside, tightening it as she closed it. She tested it, then dropped the trailing edge so it slipped into the crack.

J'Mara sighed at his raised eyebrow.

"Oil on the fire. It'll hit the spontaneous combustion phase in," she waggled a hand. "Fifteen minutes. It'll burn through the string holding the container of water above it. It'll drop in, vaporize instantly, giant fireball, which will catch the wine before anyone gets a chance to get in there to put it out. Whole building goes up, and it'll look like a kitchen accident. In case anyone investigates."

"So, we have a good distraction."

"In about twenty minutes."

He squeezed her hand. A small tendril of hope took hold.

"Come on. You're not facing Ka'Tra without your bat'leth."

"I'm facing Ka'Tra?"

"You were right earlier. He's shown no honor. You will face him in honorable, one-on-one combat."

_So much for that hope._


	22. Unspeakable Acts

"I can not challenge him to personal combat," Vuron argued.

"Why not? You're Sranak's guard. It's within your rights."

"With in Klingon rights, maybe, but I'm not a Klingon citizen. I do not have voice in the council chambers, except what is granted to me."

"I will go with you. You are a Klingon citizen because you are my husband."

"J'Mara... you shouldn't get involved with this."

"Fuck that. Here, quiet."

They waited at the side door a moment, making sure one saw them, before she disappeared into the wind to retrieve their things.

When she finally returned she shivered and thrust their bundled clothing into his waiting arms.

He sighed, dropped the wool and fur and metal, and carefully stripped the wet servant's clothing from her body.

"If I challenge him, what is protecting you from retaliation? Your students? Sranak's staff?"

"My students are half way up a mountain. If you loose, you'll be dishonored or dead, and I'll definitely be dead because that's the only way they're taking me. By now my captain has already rescued your people, so don't worry about them."

"And how are we getting back in, hm?"

"Not as servants." She sighed, shook the last of the snow from her hair along with the knot she'd tied in it. "Here, help me with the cloak. If we keep the hoods up, and keep to the servant's halls, we should be able to get back to the great hall without too much trouble."

Surprisingly, she was right. The only trouble came in the form of a couple alert guards, but a closed fist to the jaw, and a pinch to a certain nerve cluster, and the unconscious bodies tucked somewhere unobtrusive took care of that issue.

J'Mara led them to one of the entrances on the short side of the room, opposite to Ka'Tra's throne.

All four guards moved to meet the "hooded guests," until J'Mara threw hers back with a dramatic flare.

"General," three of the four greeted, bowing. The forth blinked before bowing a beat later than the others.

"I'm here to congratulate the Chancellor."

"We... weren't aware of your ah... interest."

She grinned a particularly feral grin.

"Yes, well, the Empire's interests are my interests. Now open the doors."

There was a bit of confusion as to which doors to open, as they all stumbled over one another to do her bidding.

She did not spare Vuron a glance, just shoved her way through and stepped into the noisy hall.

"My love? If you would." She snagged a metal goblet from a drunken man, handing it to him. He nodded and smashed it against an ancient metal shield with a immensely satisfying gong, shattering the goblet and leaving a sizable dent in the Ka'Tra osprey etched there.

Silence rippled away from them. J'Mara shoved her way through the crowd. No, _shoved_ wasn't the right word, because none seemed interested in impeding her progress. Just gaped at her magnificent anger and stepped out of the way.

Even those who obviously hated her nodded, or lifted a goblet, in her direction in salute.

"General," Councilman Talamak greeted, standing in her way. Blocking her path to Sranak. "You are not welcome in this house."

"No, I don't suspect I would be. Considering the dishonorable actions taken by the Empire on this day."

Ka'Tra snorted up on his throne.

Vuron threw back the hood of his cloak, the effect no where near as dramatic as J'Mara's, of course. The bat'leth he pulled, however, got a bit more attention.

"Chancellor Ka'Tra!"

The Chancellor opened up one bored eye as Vuron stood next to his mate, chest-to-chest with a Klingon who'd stared at him unseeingly only minutes earlier.

"And who's this whelp, J'Mara?" the Chancellor asked, ignoring her honorifics completely.

"This _whelp,_" Vuron answered for himself. "Is the sworn guard of the man you've taken prisoner. I demand the release of Ambassador Sranak immediately."

That got the man upright.

Ka'Tra stared down at him, then at the goblet of wine in his hand. He tossed the wine down the steps and snarled.

"What trickery is this?"

"No less than what you've preformed, _Chancellor,_" J'Mara growled.

"Guard! Seize them."

J'Mara drew her own bat'leth and swung it in an insolent circle before her. Talamak backed off, his men stepping up in his place.

"Oh, you may seize us," J'Mara challenged, "But you will be doing so at your own cost, Ka'Tra. Your men will know you for being the dishonorable _coward_ that you are!"

"I challenge you, Ka'Tra!" Vuron shouted above the sudden clamor behind them. "If you will not fight a single Vulcan in personal battle, then you certainly _are_ a coward."

"You speak like a Klingon," Ka'Tra growled, stepping down from his high place with only a slight waver. "You dress like a Klingon. If you're the Vulcan I think you are, you've acted like one for months. Hell, you even look like one of us now."

Vuron kept him a blade's width away. The fetid stench of his wine soaked breath washed over him as Ka'Tra examined Vuron's face.

"But you are not one of us. You have no voice here."

"He is my husband, Ka'Tra. As the lord of my house, he has as much voice in your hall as Talamak. Or Fr'guS. Or Kurgath."

Each of the lords around them snarled. Even Sranak, up on his metal stool, tormenter standing over him with a whip, twisted in his chains.

"She names you husband," Ka'Tra spat the word out. "And calls me dishonorable. You challenge me.

"You want to fight for your ambassador? Hmph. Fine them. Talamak! I name you my champion."

"No!" Vuron snapped his blade up, point against Ka'Tra's neck as he turned to regain his throne. "I challenge _you_, Ka'Tra, for Sranak's life. Not your underlings."

"Underling!"

"No insult intended," J'Mara growled to the councilman.

"You think I'll submit to your blade? Ha. How about this, if you refuse again, we'll execute J'Mara. Talamak, kill him."

The men behind his mate surged forward. She flowed and fought, releasing her large blade when too many hands wrestled her for it, stabbing with daggers that appeared in her hands like a magician's trick. Men fell to the ground as she snagged wrists and twisted until they were forced to give up their weapons. A wave of guards rushed J'Mara, arms wrapped around hers, around her neck, dragging her back.

Talamak stood proud and still, waiting with an outstretched hand for a bat'leth to be passed to him. Vuron waited as well, knowing too well what would happen if he pushed past the the bounds of honor when the warriors holding his mate considered him in the wrong.

Once a blade sat in each of their hands, space was cleared for them. Tables and seats dragged back to create an open space.

Vuron passed a look to J'Mara as he and Talamak circled one another. She nodded to him, going slack against her captors.

_ They should know better, _he thought to himself, before turning his concentration back on the councilman.

He was taller than Vuron by nearly a third of a meter, with the additional reach to go with it. No external clue if the bat'leth he now twisted expertly before him was his own or a borrowed one. Not the time to chance if it was an unfamiliar blade.

"Are you just going to circle, or are you going to attack, you little freak?"

Vuron bared his teeth but held his ground, waiting. Talamak roared in frustration and swung his blade up for a huge, downward plunge.

Vuron fell into the tranquility of years of practice, of meditation while practicing. As Talamak grew angrier, his movement larger, bolder, the unruffled Vulcan met, engaged, disengaged with the quick there-and-not flicker mastered in other forms.

As he stepped inside of the larger man's guard, sliced his armor here and there to keep his attention, his eyes flicked between his mate and his ambassador.

J'Mara finally got the message when Vuron's blade snipped off one of Talamak's long mustache-braids.

He kicked the man in the gut, shoving him bodily into the assembled crowd, knocking down a few of the guards holding his bondmate. As Talamak regained his feet with a roar, J'Mara had a captor's arm in her teeth. The cheering of the crowd hid the man's pained shout well.

Vuron pressed his advantage, pushing the challenge circle forward, past the low platform with the naked Vulcan, to fight at the base of Ka'Tra's stairs.

He swung his blade about in large, showy postures, drawing Talamk's attention, forcing him to the side in a defensive circle, until he had his back to the Vulcan. The shouts and the show of it hiding J'Mara's efforts well enough. The mass of bodies rushing about them engulfing her crouched over the chains. The screams of steel disguising the cling of cold iron.

Wide eyes caught his. A sharp back and forth shaking of her head before his opponent's blade caught him in the shoulder.

"Damn," he snarled. He had to throw himself down on one knee to dislodge the blade, slid and twisted on the other to come up out of the way of another sweep of Talamak's bat'leth.

J'Mara stood before the aged Vulcan, swung off her cloak.

He didn't have the moment to be curious about what she did. Noted, only in periphery, as she pulled some object from the sleeve of her glove. Talamak's blade swung in fast, hard percussion against him. He didn't hear what his bondmate said. Only just saw the shake of the man's head, before she gripped his jaw in her hands and shoved the thing into his mouth.

Talamak glanced over, his eyes following Vuron's. The shout forming in the curve of his lips.

Deep, katra wrenching terror took him; the very real possibility of her actions being discovered-

Vuron flung the blade up, snagging the councilman's, wrenching his arms away. Before he could reach for a dagger, Vuron lifted his naked hand and snagged the warrior's face. Pushed. Pushed away the shout.

Disintegrated his impetus. His urge to fight.

They stood, weapon arms gone slack.

Blades clattered to the ground. All sound around them rushing away, falling away, disappearing to nothing.

_You are nothing,_ Vuron forced. _Nothing but mine, and I do not want you. No one does._

He felt physical hands gripping him, weakly, holding. The sound of a voice pleading. He snarled and pushed deeper.

The memory of J'Mara disappeared like a handful of sand tossed to the wind. He plucked out the knowledge of the object, _an emergency transporter beacon_, before blowing that away too.

_Tell me where the rest are._

Talamak had no words in his mind. Had no way to form shields. No knowledge of shields or defense to his invasion.

Memories rushed to Vuron, thousands of locations without organization or useful content.

_No. The other Vulcans. Show me, or I will take all that you are._

He plucked away at the man as Talamak tried to remember. Memories of childhood. Of parents. Siblings. Friends. He tore these away and flung them into the fire of his rage.

Panic flooded him. Vuron felt the wetness in the man's pants and laughed.

_I can see you were there. You came to the Ambassador's house and invited them yourself. You are his little fuck toy, and now you are mine. Show me._

At his prompting the memory rose. The storm only just starting. Some weak willed Vulcan answering the door. The message passed. Their warriors received and welcomed into the house without question. Just the usual pick up for the day's meetings.

_Names. Locations. Tell me what ships they are on._

A flood of names rushed to him. Every name he ever knew. The list swiftly burning to nothing as Vuron tore away at him. Knowledge of his ancestral home disappeared. His mate disappeared. His children.

Four ships were offered to him. The images of their names, etched into the sides of the birds of prey. Vuron dragged up his military carrier, eyed it like a glass bauble a child might play with.

Panic flowed again. Star charts pieced together. Large sections missing now because of all he'd already razed. Glowing icons flared for a moment before a very real pain filled Vuron's body.

He pulled out of Talamak's mind and stared down in disbelief at the spearhead protruding through his chest.

The councilman collapsed; Vuron's mind had been the only thing keeping him upright.

Vuron's autonomic functions flooded his conscious mind. Heart rate too high. Blood pumping out at an alarming rate. Lung punctured. Pain flared for a moment, before he shut it down.

J'Mara.

He looked up. Blood loss already decreasing his peripheral vision. Sound too, it seemed. Everything so quiet.

He desperately wanted to reach for her, as she reached for him but his arms felt so... heavy.

He grasped the metal spearhead. Closer, more attainable. Gripped it tightly as the unseen enemy attempted to tug it back through his ribcage.

_What was it Klingons say? _

_ Today is a good day to die,_ he remembered with a smile.

He looked up one last time.

_I love you,_ he thought to her. _You should know that before..._

But it echoed hollowly in his head. Echoing on and on as a blaze of light filled his vision of her.

He blinked in confusion. Pain in his knees telling him he fell. A boot in his back as the spear was finally ripped free.

Shouts to trace the transporter beam.

_Of course_, he thought, grinning from ear to ear. His body collapsed forward. A quick, sharp pain as a corner of the stone steps ripped through a cheek. _You're safe. _

_ Safe._

He slowed his heart as much as he could. Blood flowed between his fingers. Consciousness guttered as strong hands gripped him.


	23. It Just Keeps Getting Better

_Vuron_...

Saying that consciousness swam in and out of his mind would be a tad too optimistic.

More like his mind attempted to settle somewhere between intense fire, the calm of meditation, and exhausted sleep.

_Tell me..._

Voices. Questioning voices. Demanding voices.

Fire along his arms, his back, his belly.

_You must hear..._

He ached to sleep with a desperation. To simply release himself to the oblivion of nothing.

For a time, he thought he felt his bondmate's presence. In his mind. At his side.

_The ships, you need to..._

Her warmth comforting and shielding him. Her smiling face bending over, hair tumbling over one bare shoulder.

_I am here,_ her voice whispered to him. _Hold on._

Hallucinations. Brain chemistry offering a better place to be in than this twilight death. He considered historical accounts; not a topic he'd actively researched, but study hand-to-hand combat enough, and instances, trends, begin to pop up. Dark tunnels. Bright lights. Family, loved ones, welcoming the departed.

Searing pain took him. Dragged him on hooks through hot coals.

He might have screamed.

When his eyes finally unglued, his vision was filled with his own body. Flaccid neck unable to hold up his head.

A metal stick jabbed him again in the belly, clarifying to the microcosm where the pain had come from.

"Bah! Enough of the painstick. We don't want to kill the bastard."

Clawed fingers gipped his chin. Tugged him upright.

He nearly smiled as the change in elevation pulled him out of consciousness again.

He'd never attempted a healing trance before. Learned it, of course, as part of his security training. What better way to avoid pain or torture, than to retreat irreparably into one's mind, in a way that focused and forced the body to heal itself?

Vuron felt the studders now. The incompatibility as that part of his mind worked overtime, speeding through equations, from how quickly he could breathe without ripping apart his remaining lung, to the minutia of closing off capillaries in small sections, cutting off blood flow just long enough for platelets too form without being washed away, without cutting off bloodflow so long that tissues started to die off from lack of oxygen.

_More_ tissue died off.

The reality that each time his captors dragged his conscious mind away from these minutia, the lower his likelihood of returning to this crepuscular realm. Of healing not only the spear wound, but the multitude of other nicks and cuts suffered from the bat'leth fight.

Snarling voices echoed down that long hallway with that realization.

_Surviving_ torture meant loosing more. Meant that they'd play with him, as they intended to with Sranak, but without the kind niceties they'd offered the Ambassador.

Vuron did not have the training, the years of experience the ambassador possessed.

He would break. Not now, or in a day, a week. Possibly a month... but he would break. Perhaps after they'd broken or removed his limbs. Or subjected his body to plasma burns. Without medical care, infection will eventually settle in and he'd die from septicemia. A long, painful death. The intent to have him die without honor meant a guarantee in that. No swift end by a sharp blade.

He spared a grateful thought that at least he wasn't being held by Cardassians; the stories passed along the security channels about their treatment of prisoners was both far from detailed, and rather intimidating.

_ How much can the Vulcan body sustain before it succumbs? _

He heard the question down that dark tunnel. They wondered it. Someone wondered it.

Weighing the options hurt a bit too much right now.

Singling it down to _death now _or _death later_ made the choice easier.

He focused on the voices. The ones outside his mind, rather than those that some perverse part of him created for his enjoyment. If he had the energy, he would laugh at Klingons trying to interrogate an unconscious Vulcan.

How little they knew.

"Where is the general..." "Where is the Ambassador..." "What ship..." "What did you do to Talamak?"

"Your mother-"

The voices around him stopped. Someone stomped up to him, grabbed him by the pauldrons and lifted his limp form.

"What about my _mother?_"

"Your mother was a Ferengi freighter captain. Who wore _clothes._"

Whoever held him tossed him to the ground. Wet coldness squished under him. Someone chuckled in the distance before a hard thump cut it off.

"Tell me the location of the Federation defense forces!"

"I heard you walked into a cafe on Terra Prime and ordered a cup of T'ai Chi."

A long moment of silence as that barb flew over their heads.

Vuron forced his eyes open. Ka'Tra stood above him. Fist clenched, ready to land a blow. Good.

"How many Vulcan starships remain!"

"How many Klingons does it take to change a lightbulb?" he quoted, digging for human jokes that might translate better. "Two. One to screw it in, and one to stab the other in the back and take the credit."

A swift kick to the stomach sent him tumbling. His body stopped with a rough jerk to his wrists. His weight tore at the sensitive flesh. Cuffs. The ones Sranak had been beamed out of.

Manic laughter bubbled up through his ruined chest.

"What do the Klingons do with the dead bulb? Execute it for failure."

Ka'Tra called for the painsticks. Stabbed him deep in the sensitive flesh of his lower back.

"If your aiming for my testicles," he groaned between jabs. "You're going to be disappointed."

Darkness fell again. His body rushing to repair the damage. He snarled and clawed his way back up, fighting to keep conscious and aware.

"What-" a kick to the face clacked his jaw shut hard on his tongue. He spat out a mouthful of blood. "What did the High Council do to the Klingon who replaced the bulb?"

Silence answered him.

"Execute him for cowardice."

"Enough!"

His hands reflexively lifted to ward off the blows, before he remembered his purpose and went slack against them.

"Enough, Ka'Tra! You'll get nothing from him like that."

_No, wait..._

"I've got plenty more where that came from, once you've recovered from that tongue lashing."

Gruff cursing echoed away. A mug of stale bloodwine tossed into his face before the last of the warriors disappeared from the hall.

_So close._

He pressed his face into the cold stone. Grateful, finally, to T'Sai. J'Mara would not feel his death. Not know the eventual dishonor.

Vuron tried to keep his mind in the present, tried to keep active and live in the pain, but eventually his sense of survival took over and forced the rest into submission.

Hours later, the searing jab of the painstick dragged him back up.

"Tell me what you did to Talamak, Vulcan, and I'll see that you get medical attention."

"How do you get a one-armed Klingon out of a tree? Wave to him."

"Something simpler than. What is your name and rank within the Vulcan army."

"What is the longest four years of a Klingon's life? Third Grade."

"Don't think you're going to get anything out of him. Either he's gone insane, or he's had some very interesting training to defy pain."

"Do Vulcans even feel pain?" Vuron gasped as the end of the painstick found a fresh spot to sear in his thigh. "You're not as stone-faced as Sranak, but then you never were. I think that's why I liked you, little whore-son."

"How many Klingons does it take to paint a starship?"

"Tell me," Ka'Tra snarled into his face, twisting the stick until his knee jerked. "How many."

"Five hundred. Plus a Romulan."

"Hm, I want to hear this one," the unseen second voice prompted.

"The five hundred Klingons to fight over the honor. The Romulan to actually do the job."

Fr'guS's round, grinning face loomed into view. "He really is quite good, Ka'Tra. Put him in chains. Keep him at your seat. Keep a little Vulcan pet to entertain the troops. Train him to sing and dance."

Vuron spat at Fr'guS. Green-laced mucus splattered the councilman's hair. His grin widened and he spit right back.

"Come, earless little freak, tell me another."

Vuron grit his teeth. Fr'guS pulled his d'k tahg, flashed the blade back and forth a moment, before flipping the handle and slamming the spiked butt of the blade into the spear wound.

The next time he awoke, the great hall was quiet, dark.

He lay utterly still, trying to discover what had pulled him from the healing trance. No pain this time. No one standing over him. His body wasn't ready to come out yet, especially with the number of times he'd been preemptively ejected. Then how was he dragged out?

Some echo. A sound, or a lack of a sound perhaps.

His eyes attempted to adjust, but one remained stubbornly shut. Cold air caressed his torso; he'd been stripped of his armor in his sleep. Pain radiating through his back led him to conclude they'd taken some enjoyment out of whipping his body.

At least they'd let him keep his boots and leggings. Thankful less for the dignity he retained, and more for the heat it helped him keep.

Shoulders cramping. He flexed his elbows, trying to bring his arms closer to his body.

They'd adjusted the chain at some point, tying his hands together behind his back. Perhaps hoisted him up by it.

As Vuron moved and twisted, he felt a wad of cloth fall away from his chest. Someone had dressed it? Not much, but it'd probably stopped the bloodflow.

Ah, if only he had Klingon eyes right now. The room so frustratingly dark.

A snort in the rushes stopped his movement.

_Might not have Klingon eyes, but I do have Vulcan ears,_ he reminded himself.

He closed the one eye that wasn't already swollen shut.

Several bodies, varying distances, laying prone. Snoring and drunk. The feast had continued until the men fell where they stood in exhaustion. Quite likely a few dead bodies as well, considering the pungent smell. J'Mara had not been pulling punches earlier.

One breathing pattern drew his attention. Slower than the sleepers, even enough to set a metronome.

He hissed in pain as he forced his weight up onto his knees. Vuron shuffled forward, stumbled down an unseen step, strained against the heavy links of chain before he finally got close enough to the prone body.

Vuron crumbled next to Talamak. There wasn't any exact variable to define this unconscious form as the man he'd stolen the mind of, he just knew. He nudged the Klingon's side with his forehead. No response. He wasn't sure he expected one.

A niggle of an idea took hold.

_You need a distraction, Altern Vuron. _

He thought of the fire J'Mara'd set. Obviously either the trap hadn't caught flame like she anticipated, or someone put it out before it did its job. No smell of smoke or shouts for fire suppressors had stopped their battle or his capture.

_No, you need something more subtle._

The niggle turned into a very dishonorable scheme.

_In war, there is nothing more honorable than victory._

He frowned.

These men had no honor, had taken advantage of a people who had nothing.

And he took all that this man truly possessed, his identity, his self, in turn.

It would be an interesting debate before a judge, if what he'd done, what he planned yet to do, might count as a crime worse than murder. Of course, explaining the process before a Klingon judicial official might have its own complications.

He backed up against the chain until he had enough slack to drag his arms under his tightly tucked legs. Cartilage popped in his shoulders as the metal cuffs snagged and pulled against the leather of his boots. Took deep breaths through his nose to keep the scream tucked away.

He reached for Talamak. Vuron clutched handfuls of wool and centimeter by centimeter dragged his slack body closer to him.

His bound hands hovered for a fraction of a second.

No telling how long he had. How long he'd need.

He initiated another meld with the Klingon, his intrusion gentle. Expecting some remaining resistance... and finding none. No resistance, no presence. No individuality left at all.

The only thing keeping Talamak's body warm and alive the impressive Klingon tenacity to survive.

Vuron centered over his own shields. Dismantled his walls block by careful block. Carefully opening up some areas, closing down others.

He closed his eye, and concentrated on what he could _see._

If it wasn't for the mirror effect he'd shared with J'mara, he'd never be inspired to try something this... illogical? Insane?

Klingon eyes opened. Data flowed through to him with the impassivity of a security camera relaying information.

The impenetrable dark exchanged for rich, warm gradients of grey. The barest color popped. The slight motion of bodies shifting in drunken sleep drawing attention with a jerk, and a spike of adrenaline.

The sharp press of fingers drew the gaze back up to a battered Vulcan. Vuron took the opportunity to visually examine his wounds. Eye swollen shut, skin split at the eyebrow ridge. Blood seeping from that wound down to the muscle-deep gouge in his cheek. He couldn't see much father down than the pockmarks given by the painsticks along his chest, thanks to the cold Vulcan hands gripping his cheeks.

_Well, that's one sense working._

Footfalls in the distance, too far for Klingon ears to register.

Vuron dropped his hands. He didn't have time to return everything to its former position, so he chose to drag himself back to his previous location and hope they didn't notice.

Flickering firelight from a pair of torches illuminated the ceiling. The shuffling sounds and quiet jokes at the expense of those prone on the ground. Men sent to see if any survived.

Vuron forced his shields to remain open; forced Talamak's eyes to keep open.

The bonding he held with his mate was powerful in the extreme, open to dangerousness. Their movements and thoughts duplicated at its height.

This... was not that pure fusion of katras. This was a master plucking the strings of a puppet. Strings half tied and tearing at his mind.

Ka'Tra's men found Talamak, eventually, saw his eyes open and reactive.

Vuron tested the strings before they pulled the Klingon away. Arms jerked up without coordination, hands grasping. A disturbing delay between what he sensed he grabbed and what he saw through borrowed eyes.

"Ha! He's coming out of it. Call Ka'Tra! Get a healer in here. He might have an honorable death after all."

One of the men clasped Talamak by the hand, lifted him up.

Vuron's attention wavered; the Klingon's body stumbled before righting itself.

"Easy, man. You've been out for hours."

"How much did he have to drink?"

"Nothing, that I remember."

He stumbled again, calculated this time. The tall Klingon's mass caused one of the underlings to stumble in the attempt to support him. Hands with the dexterity of molded rubber fumbled until the sensation of cold metal prompted Vuron to close his hand.

A quick pull, elbow flex, and he shoved the knife back in.

The guard stared uncomprehending at the councilman as he fell.

Talamak jerked in an awkward circle. The second man's eyes rimmed in white. The torch dropped onto a sleeping warrior, catching his hair on fire. Screams.

Vuron kept a tight hold of the knife. Forced one foot in front of the other.

The guard picked up the screaming conflagration, dragged him away from the puppet. Ran from the room, shouting for reinforcements.

Moments now.

Search the body for the key to his shackles?

Through the eyes of the puppet, Vuron saw himself. A huddled, pale pile, striped in green, shuddering at the base of an iron seat.

Three steps. Not much coordination needed for that. The knife already poised. Just a matter to cut the strings and allow the sharp blade to slip in between his ribs and slice through his heart.

Talamak swallowed a mouthful of gathering saliva.

No. He hadn't exhausted all his avenues yet. Not logical to give up.

The puppet stumbled as he directed it to turn again. Had to make it crawl to get to the downed Klingon. Pure chance this one had a keyring on him.

Talamak returned on hands and knees. Collapsed in a heap next to him. The lack of dexterity meant it wouldn't be useful for this.

Vuron had to take a moment to readjust to the darkness. His fingers reached for the fur of Talamak's sleeve, followed it down to the gloved hands. The cold metal.

The lock was in the middle of the shackle, between his hands. Difficult to reach. He rotated through one key after another. None fit in the lock.

He snarled in frustration before a touch of visual memory hit him. A second lock, at the base of the chair held the chain.

He forced himself up. The sounds of shouting in the floor below urging him faster.

The next to last key finally popped the chain free.

_Now what?_

Free of this location, but no hands to defend himself. No weapons, save the knife he'd dropped a couple meters away.

_The puppet._

He couldn't operate it and run himself, but...

He let his body go slack, his attention back on the body that'd housed the councilman. With a quick, hard jerk, he righted the Klingon. It took all of his concentration to keep his balance as he reached down, picked up the slack Vulcan body, and slung it over the Klingon's wide shoulder. The hundred kilos well within his ability to lift, but not his experience.

The room filled with light just as he regained his upright equilibrium.

"Talamak!"

Ka'Tra looked smaller now. Older. Through Klingon eyes his skin had lost its vibrancy; from the taller angle, Vuron saw his hair thinning.

"Talamak, what are you doing?"

Vuron attempted the hard scowl that J'Mara instructed.

By the confused expression on the Chancellor's face, he doubted it had quite the effect he intended.

Before he could fall into contemplating the probability of the success of this insanity, Vuron directed his puppet forward.

The stride awkward. Feet in boots too heavy. Had to ignore the sensations flowing through his own body with each jarring step.

Whatever they saw in the puppet's face, Ka'Tra waved back his men and allowed him to step past.

"Lord Talamak," Ka'Tra growled, following close behind. The sound of footfalls indicated that only he stayed close. "What do you intend to do?"

Unseen, Vuron plucked at the invisible strings. Vocal cords tightened and released in an blundering ripple. The effort causing a stumble in the forward momentum.

Ka'Tra grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around. Face pressed close to the puppet. Fangs bared.

"Answer me, damn you. What did that Vulcan do to you?"

Vuron succeeded in lifting one side of the puppet's lips to display his own fangs. The silent snarl backed the Chancellor off, but bought him precious little in time.

What to do? He's up, in a way, and out of the great hall, but outside nothing but wind and snow waited for him. He needed to escape... to...

_Escape._

_Emergency transporter beacon._

Talamak had recognized it.

Sharp eyes jerked down to the leather cuffs. Insensitive sausages fumbled in one, then the other, finally coming into contact with a hard bit of something.

Klingon eyes picked out the dark-on-dark etched symbols clearly. He rotated the dial to activate it and thumbed the recall button.

Ka'Tra's shouts chased after him through the transporter beam.


	24. Chances

"Lord Talamak!"

Vuron fought for his balance. Between the shift in gravity and the uneven surface of the transporter pad, he concentration and control of the puppet faltered.

A hard glare from Talamak stopped the lieutenant at the transporter controls from approaching. The Klingon took some small jerk as a dismissal.

The officer nodded, saluted, and stepped out of the room.

_Thank Kahless for well trained soldiers._

He moved Talamak over to the controls. A limited-access console; with a quick fumble he discerned the ship's name, the _Par'machkai,_ and her class, Raptor scout.

Vuron spared a moment to delve into his knowledge from the Vulcan database. Manned by twelve to fifteen, between four and six decks. Rarely longer than two-hundred meters, but bristling with forward-facing armaments and armor superior to war ships of much larger classes. No verdigris developing on the interior walls, that he could see, or blood stains etched into the decorative carving; so a newer ship. Engines negligible. Should possess a cloaking device, but he couldn't find that information from this terminal.

By the hum vibrating through the walls, he'd guess they were in orbit of Qo'Nos.

Ka'Tra would hunt him down soon enough; the longer they remained in orbit, the higher the likelihood.

He delved into the computer again. Talamak's personal quarters on the third deck.

Vuron carefully erased his query history, fixed the scowl again, and stomped the puppet off to the lift.

He passed three crewmen, who saluted but didn't question.

As the turbolift opened, the captain, a young man already well scarred and with hair cropped short, waited for him.

The captain saluted in lieu of greeting, then stood to the side, giving Talamak room to enter. He followed in Talamak's shadow all the way to the councilman's quarters.

Useless to wish he'd spent more time analyzing the memories before he'd torn them away. Vuron eyed the keypad at the side of the door. Seven keys, and a handprint scanner. Even if he had examined the councilman's thoughts before stripping them away, the likelihood of noting passwords was next to nil.

_Perhaps... It is logical to only have a lock for the crew; it remains to be seen if Talamak followed any sort of logic._

A red glow encompassed his hand, the bar of light running from fingertip to palm and back up. Seven point five milliseconds passed before the computer acknowledged his puppet's identity and admitted them.

"Lord Talamak, we weren't expecting your presence," the captain began, once the doors closed behind them.

With a shrug of Talamak's shoulder, Vuron dumped his body without ceremony in a corner before collapsing the puppet into the high-backed chair. Not quite on par with Ka'Tra's personal throne, but the same visual theme. _A king on his own, private hill._

"There's been a planet-wide transmission," the young captain said, with the slow articulation of someone trying to couch his meaning politically, and no experience to find the right words. "Looking for..." his eyes drifted to the seemingly unconscious Vulcan at Talamak's feet. "Intruders that... escaped."

He studied this captain through Klingon eyes, digested information on more than the visual spectrum level. For a captain, facing his lord, he held himself in a defensive stance. Not willing to look him in the eye, or stare at the green heap on the ground for too long.

The longer Talamak stared without a word, the more his captain shifted.

_He doesn't approve,_ Vuron realized.

"The communications officer is standing by to give a response, when one has been... prepared." The captain snarled with silent distaste. "It isn't my place to question," the captain stopped himself, swallowed deeply as they stared at one another. "At least let me send the healer up. No one deserves such a dishonorable death."

Talamak stared for several more moments, before giving one small nod.

The captain bowed and stamped out.

Vuron sighed and let the puppet go slack again the moment the ambulatory Klingon left.

He pulled himself upright, bit back the groan of pain. His mind too occupied keeping another body running to cut off the throbbing pain of his own.

He swiveled the chair out of the way and began tearing through Talamak's personal computer. Confident bastard didn't even have a software lock-out on this machine; just expected the external lockouts on the door to serve.

The locations he'd pulled from Talamak's mind swam forward. He plugged them into the general locational search; a local galaxy map opened up before his eyes, the positions highlighted and blinking in brilliant orange. All within several light-years.

_Fast enough ship, with armor and weapons..._

Vuron closed his eyes. He needed time to meditate. Time for a true healing trance. Time to contemplate the probabilities and decide if the potential outcome was worth the risks.

His eyes fell to the Klingon sitting slack next to him. Eyes open, mouth parted. Waking death. Or worse.

_Your people think too much, _J'Mara's voice tickled him. A memory of a memory. _Take too much time contemplating when action is called for._

A bubble of sick laughter threatened. If he'd been thinking instead of acting...

No, if he hadn't acted, he'd still be in Ka'Tra's clutches, along with his bondmate and the ambassador.

What has been done, has been done. No changing that.

Underneath a lot of frivolous coding, the base data of Talamak's terminal shone before him. This machine had been designed to act as a secondary command terminal. As it stood, he could give orders from here in privacy. With time, a respectable amount of hard wiring, and a lot of programming, he could take over helm, engines, even weapons.

He had an opportunity here. One that may, or may not, work, but no matter the personal risk, half of his mission was already complete. From here on, any additional risk could only gain him more benefit, rather than loose what little he had gained.

J'Mara was on her own ship, safe, and on her way to Terra Prime. Or Betazed. Federation territory, one way or another.

Vuron ordered universal silence for the ship; if Ka'Tra was issuing planet-wide transmissions, that meant he had no idea _where_ Talamak transported to. Vuron needed to keep it that way.

He searched for the three ships names. One served under Talamak's house, and circling a nearby moon of an ice planet. The other two belonged to Fr'guS and Kurath; Ka'Tra split up the hostages.

Vuron took a deep, steadying breath, and issued orders to Talamak's other ship.

_Radio silence unless this code received: Trust logic, it will lead you home safely. Do not trust logic, it lies under the knife. _

Vuron hoped that no one on the ship decided to take any initiative and attempted to translate that phrase from ancient Vulcan.

_Under cloak, travel at maximum speed to these coordinates. _He supplied the coordinates for Terra Prime from memory. Hoped that J'Mara intended to head there.

_ Drop cloak, and await above code. Under no circumstances engage any ship. You will deliver your cargo to the individual who transmits above code. _

He nearly put J'Mara's name in the transmission, then thought better of it.

After an agonizing moment, the ship issued a confirmation of orders.

_So easy... _

_ Too easy._

Echoing footsteps led up to the door.

His fingers flew across the keypad, quickly ordering the _Par'machkai_ to cloak and leave orbit. The coordinates of the closer of the two enemy ships, in a neighboring solar system came up without thought. Warp five point six, as fast as the little ship could manage without burning out the engines.

Then he dropped back to the floor, just as the doors opened.

"Lord Talamak, I-"

He swiveled Talamak's chair and unceremoniously kicked the limp Vulcan form out of the way.

A muscle ticked in the captain's jaw.

"I brought the healer."

Talamak nodded and waved in a jerky, vague fashion towards the body at his feet.

The young woman exchanged a sour glance with the captain.

_Interesting._

"I will remove him so I can treat his wounds, Lord Talamak."

The healer reached for his body, obviously intent on taking him from the room.

Talamak's hand slammed down on the desk in a loose fist.

_No. I have to stay here. I need his computer, I need..._

He groaned, and the two young officers looked down.

_Idiot. For once, you're in two places at once. Talamak might have limited tactile abilities, but he seems capable of punching a few buttons._

Talamak's body snorted, then gestured towards the door.

They bowed, and carted off his body.

Vuron focused down on the computer while every jostle and jerk of his real body attempted to pull him away.

_Lock the doors. Top secret mission. No questions to be asked, or messages to be responded to without express permission of the lord. A lord who does not wish to be disturbed until the ship reaches her destination._

He dropped the puppet again.

"This whole business is dishonorable," the captain grumbled in that typical loud Klingon way.

"At least he's letting us treat this one. What do you think is going on?"

"How am I supposed to know?" They shifted his body between them so that the healer could activate the door to the sick room. "All I know is what the Chancellor sent on all bands. Several intruders infiltrated his estate, stole vital information-"

"-Which we know means they got his hostage free."

"Exactly," the young man agreed. "Then escaped with one of the Councilmen as his own hostage."

"That's ass backwards. Here, on the second bed, close to the wall. Gentle now, this one is in pretty terrible shape. Talamak beamed in with the Vulcan unconscious on his shoulder. Kaia told me she saw him stomping off to his room under his own power."

"Propaganda," the captain grumbled. "Politics. Kahless keep me captain of ships small enough I don't have to deal with that targ shit."

Melodious laughter bubbled through the room. "That obviously won't work. Look at you! Captain of the Councilman's private vessel, on call at all hours for whatever he needs. I'd say you're right in the middle of the whole mess."

The loud sigh held a discordant note.

"Think you can handle this one on your own? Or do you want me to send a guard down?"

"Pfft. Don't waste the energy. Doubt there's enough blood left in this one to cause trouble. I'm sure Talamak's playing arm chair captain as we speak. Best to get to the bridge and see what orders he's issuing while you're not paying attention."

"Good point. I want hourly updates."

"Aye, Captain. Good luck."

"We'll all need it."

Computers beeped and vurred above him in a comfortable chorus. The only thing keeping him awake and alert at this point were the none-too-gentle poking and prodding as the healer examined him.

"Might as well stop play acting," she growled eventually. "I've got one hand on a tricorder, and another on my disrupter. I know you're awake, Vulcan."

Vuron grunted in acknowledgement. Fighting to get his eyes open was, surprisingly, difficult.

_You've gone through too many of your reserves, Altern. Only so long you can stave off the healing trance, and you're well past that point, considering how many times Ka'Tra pulled you out of it._

_ Does talking to oneself constitute a loss of logic?_

"Ah, you do have eyes then."

Vuron hadn't met many of the "Science" caste during his time on Qo'noS. He'd heard, from the warriors he sparred with, and from the occasional joking tone of the politicians, that they had developed into little more than shriveled, hunching things. It had become rare for those not born into the caste to choose the life. The driven blood of the Klingon species one that tended towards the outdoors, to immediate results, not quiet contemplation over a microscope.

Either Talamak had picked his personal healer for more than... scientific prowess, or, well, the rumors were far off from the reality before him.

Delicate, soft hands cradled his head, positioning his spine with tender delicacy. Her robes clean, neat, and cut in the manner typical of the female-designed armor he was used to seeing on the spar-matt. Namely, designed to emphasize and support quite the set of bosoms.

Viewing them upside-down, and from such a strange angle, gave him little more view of her face than the underside of her chin.

"You've sustained several crushed vertebrae. You will need to remain still while I administer calcium supplements directly into your bloodstream then begin the bone mending process. I've never done this on an offworlder before, so this _might_ be a tad painful."

Vuron's body sagged at the intelligent description of what needed accomplishing.

_So, that explains the pain_, he decided.

"Don't even know if you understand a proper language," she muttered as she puttered about for one thing or other. "Though it would be nice to know what happened."

"Interrogated," Vuron supplied, after during a mental inventory for the word. Not one he usually utilized. Truthfully, neither were ones she chose to use.

"Oh."

He didn't flinch at the feel of an old-fashioned intravenous system being applied to his inner arm. _Don't they have hypo-dermal injection systems?_ He wondered.

"I believe I might have a fractured optical orbit as well."

"Left or right?" she asked. The nearness of her medical scanner nothing more than the slightly annoying auditory buzz.

"Left," he supplied, after a moment to remember the word. "A concussion is probable as well. I find it difficult to find the proper words for a variety of... things."

An unknowing hand touched his bare collarbone, a wave of comfort washing over him unbidden but not rejected.

"My computers aren't calibrated for your people," she said honestly. "I can tell what's broken, but not what's abnormal. I'll need your help for that."

"Uncertain if your treatments will work," Vuron said, after a moment. "And likely I'm going to loose consciousness soon."

He barely perceived the nod she gave him. "Right. Okay, tell me what's most likely to kill you, and we'll see if we can get that taken care of first."

In any other species, considering his trodden state, that might very well be a statement outside the real of reasonability. Luckily, she queried a vulcanoid; bodily functions were in his conscious control, and he had more than the average Vulcan's understanding of his inner workings, thanks to years of self-awareness training in the form of various sparring.

"Skull fractures, burns to torso. Spinal fractures not expected, but understandable considering pain levels past threshold of management. Rib fractures. Puncture wound to ventral lobe of right lung. Possible knick to atrium; modified blood flow to restrict bleed out of the lungs will have affected this area as well. If you can, check if there is dead issue in this area and remove localized tissue. Replacement is possible, later, if I can get to a Federation medical facility. Various electrical burns across exposed and non-exposed dermal surfaces. Defacement to ears self-induced; please do not treat those as it might hinder replacement of tissues at a later date."

She stepped back, out of his field of vision, for a good long while. Consulting her databases, perhaps?

"We don't have an analog for your blood type," her faraway voice reached him.

"Saline will be sufficient for the time being," Vuron decided. Truly, he had little medical knowledge, but the dark edges threatening the edge of his vision had a troublesome vibration to them. "I will be unconscious soon, and will begin the process of rebuilding lost platelets and blood cells."

"You sound quite certain."

Finally, her face swam into his vision. Uncomfortably close, and her voice soft enough that another Klingon might think her attempting to speak with a seductive tone. Her visage beautiful, within the criteria of her species. Symmetrical, at least.

"Your people have redundant organs to deal with life-threatening injury. My people go into a healing trance, so that our energies can be focused solely on recovery."

"That implies that one will be trusting of the company that they're in."

His eyes tightened in a very Vulcan smile. "Often times, one is not given a choice, young Klingon."

She was young. Thinnish in the shoulders. Face unlined. Hair loose and tapering just past her shoulders in a manner that implied she had yet to cut it. Very young. And yet, in a ship of high hierarchical position, entrusted with the lived on board.

Her brows furrowed somewhat with the comment. Her shoulders tightened.

"No offense was intended with the observation," Vuron groaned.

"No. None taken. I am. Already my computer can barely real your brain activity, yet you continue to speak to me. What can I do to help? This ship is headed away from Qo'noS. From your people. This is possibly the last chance I could send a message back to them."

_Good. The captain listened to Talamak's orders._

"Tell me your name."

"I am Healer Frenna. Daughter of Grumpta. Of the house of Talamak."

"Frenna. A good name."

"Not a strong name." A luminescent smile in the growing dark. "And yours?"

_How had J'Mara put it?_

"Altern Vuron," he said, after far too long of a pause. Total darkness now. "Bondmate to Lady J'Mara, General in the house of Councilwoman Bel'tath. Wake me, when we have arrived. An uncommon amount of force might be necessary."

He heard a question, or what might have been a question, as the universe as he perceived it closed in to a pinprick before disappearing completely. The lilt of the voice raised up at the end; close enough to a question.


	25. Once More

A sharp, cold pain centered his mind. Another, creating a symmetrical sensation, followed. Not symmetrical as far as time went. Sequential. One after the other. The sides of his face. His cheeks. A sharp slap, one side, then the other.

After untold numbers, the sensation finally cemented to the concrete; theoretical force to very real pain.

A wrist caught in his hand; autonomic reflex, stopping a coming blow.

The questing probe of his mind finding a quiet, innocent mind filled will inquisitive exuberance.

_Not my mate._

_Not a threat._

_ Then what?_

His eyelid dragged open across the sands of his homeworld.

A medbay. Dark, stark, not well appointed.

Upright body, at least, so not too badly harmed. Pain a dull throb that held no more significance than the pain of a glaring sunset.

_Healthy enough for the task._

_ What task?_

"Altern Vuron?"

His eyes settled on a young woman before him. Curvacious in the extreme, her breasts on display in a tight, white woolen creation. The creaminess of her outfit made the dark chocolate of her skin stand out even farther. Especially the darker heat where her areola nearly peaked past the exposing seams of her "uniform." Her waist nipped tight, then forced past logical proportions thanks to artfully placed optical effects of pinstripe seams in her creamy wool uniform.

"Yes. I am... I am awake," he said, opting for this reply, instead of his automatic one of affirming his identify. _Who else would be in this situation?_

"We are in orbit of Anditudnbuw VI. You instructed me to wake you... with uncommon force, if necessary."

"Did I?" he asked, after a long while. "Yes... yes, thank you. What planet again, did you say?"

She repeated the name and slowly a good deal of complicated details converged into one point.

"_Prisoner." At least the the captain and his crew. Of a puppet under my control. Attempting rescue of my fellows. This was the first location I'd entered inter the coordinates. Need to get to a computer... Or access the puppet._

Her calmly relayed information sank into his psyche. He'd been in his healing trance for three days. Precisely what he needed to recover... well, as much as his own physical abilities allowed, at any rate.

"The calcium supplements have taken," she continued. "But your blood pressure still seems to be through the roof, yet I find it difficult to pull a new line for blood samples."

Vuron calmly stated his basil metabolic rate for her future reference, stood, and began a careful regiment of stretching.

"I can't tell if your organs have fully healed," Healer Frenna said, her hands hovering close by, ready to support him.

"Between our efforts, my wellbeing is significantly improved. My thanks."

_And now, what to do?_

"You said our location was..."

"Anditudnbuw VI."

"And the captain intends?"

"To follow Councilman Talamk's orders."

_Ah yes, of course. I need to get back up there and-_

The stark reality of a body without three day's attendance sat heavily in his mind. A Vulcanoid metabolism left to take root over three days might be fresh and ready for nearly any challenge, but-

"Councilman Talamak."

"The man who kidnapped you. And the rest of the Vulcan delegates."

Then they knew. One less hurdle to face, at least.

"You are aware of the council's actions against the Vulcan ambassador, then?"

"Vaguely. The Captain's been hoping for a detailed accounting before we arrived... he doesn't like this amount of secrecy."

"He is not the only one," Vuron replied honestly. "Would he be amenable to a private audience?"

She nodded and practically pounced on the comm unit. Within moments the young, tightly shorn man he'd witnessed through Talamak's eyes days earlier appeared. Considering the promptness of his arrival, he'd been waiting in the hallway.

Vuron examined the man through fresh eyes. Young, he still assumed, but the stresses of an early captaincy stood obvious in the dark circles under his eyes, the tilt of his shoulders, the clench of his fists.

His uniform was new, the metal gleaming in the calm, dim light of the medical bay. Several metals of distinction glimmered on his sash. The fur at his sleeves a bit rumpled, and perhaps worn down at the elbows. The seams in his pants over the knees were also nearly pressed out. Every evidence of an accomplished young officer, snatched up by a lord and left sitting in his captain's chair with little to do but orbit a planet, waiting at the man's beck and call.

"Lord Talamak hasn't communicated his wishes past getting here," he growled to the medic. "Does the Vulcan have anything to say?"

The tilt of her eyebrows, her head, indicated his awake, alert body.

"You're up."

"Indeed."

"So. Care to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Vuron quickly considered his options.

"My people have been kidnapped." Muscles jerked in the clenched jaws of both Klingons before him. "Talamak, the Chancellor, and other councilmen took them, against their will."

"If your people were so weak as to allow themselves to be-" The captain began. Even Vuron could see the Klingon lacked strength in his conviction.

"My people are pacifists. We were here to negotiate peace treaties for mining and travel rights. They possessed no weapons. No means to defend themselves. They were not taken in honorable battle."

Silence met his accusations.

"We might have gathered that," the captain said, eventually. "Talamak took you from Ka'Tra's lands, in the middle of a blizzard."

Vuron didn't correct him.

Technicalities, anyway.

"I need to rescue my people." That, at least, was honest.

The captain hung his head between tense hands for a long moment. He shared a glance with the healer.

"Talamk stole pacifists."

"Yes. He did," Frenna replied evenly.

"He has no honor."

"We've already spoke about this, Captain. I hate to point out we're talking about this with an offworlder in the room."

"He already knows."

_Questioning his loyalty to the extreme,_ Vuron realized, echoes of earlier thoughts. _If only I can push it over the edge._

Just as Vuron opened his mouth begin fabricating some extensive plot, a permeating red light bathed he room and a klaxon sounded out in the hallway.

"Proximity alert."

"We're under cloak, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but we were headed right for a battle cruiser."

_Battle Cruiser?_

Vuron swallowed a lump in his throat as the ship rocked with weapon's fire.

The captain snarled a curse, hit the comm panel, and shouted orders to the bridge.

"We need orders," he growled, once basic maneuvers had been relayed. "Vulcan! Tell me! Do I... wait for the councilman to finish sleeping of his drunken stupor, or leave while I still have a ship to command?"

_ So, that's the delay._

"I have no command of this ship-"

"No, but if you are who you say you are-"

Another shot rocked them past the inertial dampeners' compensation abilities.

"Damn!"

He rushed out of the room, leaving them to follow or remain. Vuron exchanged a look with the healer before following.

Within minutes, he found himself at the back of a small battle bridge; only three officers, other than the captain, at the minimal posts. From the readouts he could pick up, the _Par'machkai _already down to thirty percent of her shields. Warp engine disabled; readouts from the engine room estimating a minimal repair time, as long as there are no further complications. No chance to run away, not that an honorable warrior might retreat from a glorious death in battle.

Vuron leapt at a console, shoving a communication officer to the side to get as much tactical information from the battle cruiser as he-

_ Landri_, battle cruiser. Four times the length, several times the girth, and untold more personal manning the stations.

"Cloak not holding?" Vuron asked without thinking.

"They're reading our emissions," one of the Lieutenants answered. "We've been leaking ever since-" a sharp cutting motion from the captain silenced the man.

"Raptor classes can outmaneuver a D5 cruiser with little problem-"

"Not when our port thruster is out."

"Give me comm," Vuron stated simply. His eyes met the near-black of the captains for a long moment. A challenge passed between them, an unspoken war the Vuron barely perceived before the captain finally growled for the commander at comm to give over helm control.

Vuron nodded his appreciation.

As a security officer, Vuron had little more than basic piloting experience, but textbook knowledge of the ships capabilities, a several night's rest, and the ability to compute the x, y, and z axis to the nth degree within a moment's time gave him a considerable advantage.

_Similar warp capabilities, _ he recited to himself. _But the Raptor can pick up and break within a fraction of the distance of a battle cruiser. Ventral phasor turrets, with a theoretical "360º" rotation means I need to stay above them. No port thruster means we need to bank aft, continuously._

_ Let us hope that the inertial dampeners hold._

With a burst of key commands, he had the little Raptor spinning in her internal axis, always to her right, with sporadic, seemingly random pushes of the thrusters to keep her movements controlled, yet outside of the bigger ships firing range.

"I can't get a target!" the tactical officer shouted.

"Lock possible in 5, 4," Vuron counted down, using navigational sensors to pick out, and transmit, possible targets to the other side of the bridge.

He needed shields and life support down. Within moments of bringing oxygen levels down, he'd be able to distinguish Vulcan life signs and-

"Got it!"

Blazes of red filled the main viewscreen. Within moments, light of a confirmed hit filled the room.

Vuron continued to pirouette the scout ship in precise turns, slowing only moments here or there to facilitate weapon's lock.

Finally, no more torpedos rocked the little ship and the captain called for a cease fire.

"Can you stop us, Vulcan, or are we doomed to spin until-"

A lateral flip, accompanied with another hard hit of the port thruster – now pushing in the opposite direction – jerked the ship to a quick halt. The maddening spin slowed to a relatively slow twirl.

"Adequate?"

He snarled.

"Commander Zor! I want communications opened up with the _G'tagh_! I want to know why they fired on us! And damn it, find the energy leak told them we were here in the first place!"

A chorus of "Yes sir!" followed a flurry of activity.

Vuron found himself pushed out of the station he'd commandeered.

He drifted behind the captain, abruptly uncertain.

"This is your last chance, Vulcan, tell me what the fuck is going on, before my communications officer opens up a channel with those idiotic bastards."

"Fr'guS and Kurath are holding my men," he stated in bland honesty. The captain eyed him, surprised. "Talamak directed the _Par'machkai_ to their ships. We need to rescue the Vulcan delegation before-"

A thin grin pulled at the captain's lips, giving him a sly edge.

"Say no more. I'm sure Talamak's keeping silent for a reason. Gor! Get a raiding party together. Cancel that comm request. Keep the bastards busy, Zor. If I don't get back, give the old girl an honorable death, will ya?"

"Aye, sir!"

"Vulcan! Come with me."

Vuron followed in step as the young man swept from the bridge.

"What do you intend to do?"

"We're rescuing your people, eh? You're not staying here, if that's the mission. You think a bunch of smooth-faced, yellow bellied pacifists are going to follow me onto the transporter pad?"

Vuron passed the man a gaze. It'd taken him so little to follow- _Too easy. _

_ But take what graces you can while you have them._

"No. They would not follow you."

He grunted an agreement, pulling weapons from a locker halfway down a hall down the long neck from the bridge back to the main body of the ship.

He passed a disruptor rifle to Vuron.

"You know how to operate one of these? Or does your peace-loving ways keep you from firing a weapon?"

"While the lessons of Surak are quite detailed on the message of taking a life without necessity, the subject of kneecaps was rather vague."

The Klingon grinned, slung the strap of his own rifle across his chest, and checked his pistols as he called up the turbolift.

"While this might not be the most prudent time, one feels the necessity in asking why your loyalties have been so readily appropriated to my cause."

"...you asking why I'm helping grab your people?"

"Indeed."

A heavy frown pulled the captain's lips down.

"Talamak stole ya from the Chancellor, brought you on his personal vessel. We might be well appointed, but we don't see much action. Swore the crew to secrecy, aimed us towards his 'ally's' ship, then disappeared in his quarters. I don't like his methods... but I rarely do. If he needs plausible deniability and still institute a rescue, then we shall do our best to accomplish it."

Vuron bit his lip but nodded.

The turbolift doors opened and the captain lead them back towards a familiar transport pad.

"Got any fighting experience?"

"Yes, but no boarding experience."

"The _G'tagh_'s big enough to have a compliment of three hundred, maybe four," he bent over the targeting controls for a long moment. "We're going to aim transport for the brig, and if we're lucky we'll find the hostages, nab and tag them with return transponders, be back on the _Par'machkai_ and off at warp six before they know what hit them. How many to expect?"

"Six, I presume," Vuron said, assuming that the delegates has been split somewhat equally between the three lords.

"Right. Easy enough. Everyone, take a sack."

Emergency beam out beacons were passed about in large quantities.

_Almost like the captain was prepared for this type of event._

"Stick close to me, Vulcan. I'll get you back safe."

"It's Vuron," he corrected, as he took his place next to the captain on the transport pad. "Altern Vuron, bondmate to Lady J'Mara, General in the house of Councilwoman Bel'tath."

His words rocked through the boarding party gathering behind them.

The captain breathed in a long sigh.

"General J'Mara, eh? Damn, never thought an offworlder would snag her. Right. Hear that? We're getting J'Mara's men back from Fr'guS and Kurath. Rukus? Gousnh? Stick close. If we bring the General's husband back with more holes than we got him, we're gonna be in deep targ shit!"

"Yes sir!"

Two, very large, Klingons suddenly flanked him and the captain.

"I'm Tamal, by the way, son of Grun," he said with a grin. "Good to meet you. Beam up!"

"Aye sir!"

Vuron only had a moment to wonder at the strangeness of the situation, and feel the amazed stared of Captain Tamal's men before the _Par'machkai_ disappeared in a blur of golden light.

* * *

A/N: Yeah I know, paraphrasing Firefly. It had to happen some day. Not exactly sorry 'bout it neither. Shep' Book is a damn handsome-type man.


	26. Into the Breach

Invading the _G'tagh_ proved to be mechanically simple, if somewhat grueling. Captain Tamal's men cut an efficient, _eager_ swath through the unsuspecting warriors of the big battle cruiser. By the time the klaxon finally sounded throughout the halls, they had taken control of a goodly section, including the armory.

Vuron holstered the borrowed disruptor and quickly picked out hand weapons, tucking extra blades into the front and back of his trousers. His bare, pale chest in this dim environment stood out like a beacon, but he didn't want to chance wearing unfamiliar armor and being caught by his new allies.

Rukus and Gousnh, his assigned guards, quickly fell into a routine, standing before him as they infiltrated a new section, then falling back into a triangle formation behind him, shoulders nearly touching as each man guarded the other two's backs.

Captain Tamal's men, young and eager, leapt at each opportunity for battle, but their lack of practical experience meant Vuron found himself throwing stolen d'k tagh – not weighted for the purpose by any stretch – into the throats of oncoming warriors, bodily shoving the younger men aside so that his bat'leth might catch a well aimed strike, or ducking under a wide sweep of a blade to hastily grab the bundle of nerves at the base of a warrior's neck and force his opponent into unconsciousness.

The first time he disrupted the seemingly normal course of fight both men glared at him. The second? The third? The forth? Not as much. Soon, his greater skill pushed them onward, flowing through and around a crowd, circling and closing back in against Tamal and those at his side. A simple pincher tactic, but with time weighing on his shoulders, Vuron needed each confrontation fast and decisive.

Swift hacking at the first terminal they crossed directed their path; the delegates were housed in the very heart of the _G'tagh_. Off course from where they'd been transported in. Tamal suggested splitting up to disguise their true intent, but Vuron advised against it; at this point, their intent must be obvious. Splitting would only mean lowering their own defensive capabilities.

Minutes or hours passed by. The flow of the unfamiliar weapon in his hands a comforting, living thing, even as blood flowed over his knuckles and caked his wrists. Here, or there, he darted in and utilized the nerve pinch to incapacitate his opponent, but for the most part he met steel with steel.

Soon enough only a handful of older warriors stood between them and a black grey grate, and then even they fell away.

Tamal ordered one to figure out the door's mechanism, others down opposite halls to clear the area.

Vuron stood silent, waiting.

The soft pat of blood dripping down his body into the pools beneath his feet filled his ears. Green and red co-mingling in the shadows. Marking him so easily as _other _among the group.

"Got it!" the crewman declared. The naked wires sparked in his hands and the door opened with a screech.

Vuron stood aback in shock.

The Vulcans hadn't simply been incarcerated, but tortured. Not just as he had been – injuries exasperated with cruel, blunt tactics – but degraded. The others forced to watch.

He stood frozen, eyes drawn to the open sores at wrist, ankle... thigh. Tamal questioned him. The words untranslatable. The sound of the desert winds roared in his ears, the electric storms of the Forge a tangible pain at his back. Barely recognized the sharp gesture for Tamal's men to cut through the chains. Some used their blades. Others disruptors.

Vuron stood silent while the others bustled about them.

"Rukus. Gousnh. Your armor."

To their credit, they didn't hesitate, not from modesty, or to question this strange Vulcan in their presence giving them orders. They just disrobed and with surprising care, passed out sections of their armor and furs to the delegates. Others followed suit with a none-too-subtle glare from Tamal and soon the bare, bloody, bruised skin was covered.

"What should we do with the bodies?"

A shudder passed through him. He did not want to see these who had succumbed. Those living, he had failed enough. Those dead...

"Have they been taken care of?" He asked one women who managed to prop her own head upright.

Silent accusation filled her eyes. Anger. Hurt. Defiant hatred.

"Please," Vuron nearly pled, falling into his native tongue so that Talamak's men could not understand. "Tell me. Were you able to save their katras?"

"How is it you live," T'Luminareth gasped from a raw throat. "When those more worthy have been taken?"

Vuron closed his eyes against the raw accusation. "Did you save them?" he asked again.

"We were kept in _chains_ while these barbarians _used_ us. It is bad enough suffering this when- when-"

The room fell quiet at the pitiful, heaving sound of her sobs.

"What does she say?" Captain Tamal asked at his side.

"She is in pain, Tamal. Get them back to our ship. Healer Frenna has much ahead of her."

"...and the bodies?"

"They are but empty husks now."

A frown tugged at the Klingon's wide, expressive mouth.

"Do we leave them, then?"

Vuron lifted his hand, intent on pinching the bridge of his nose, stopping only moments before painting himself in gore.

"No. Transport the bodies back, or space them here. Do not give these bastards the chance for any more of their... amusements from my people."

"At this moment, I've a mind to do both. Dishonorable targ shit. You heard him, men. Get them all beaconed and beamed back. Vuron- Altern Vuron," he amended, slowly working the unfamiliar title between his teeth. "Honor demands we retaliate. This-" he gestured behind him, where one unfortunate had been stretched across a mechanism until his limbs had been wrenched from their sockets, then on until his skin had ripped apart. "This is unconscionable. Not even in war time. Against a superior foe.

"Do you wish to hunt down the _G'tagh's_ Captain now? Perhaps... find the lord this ship belongs to?"

The Vulcan closed his eyes to the scene around him. The green splattered walls. The entrails dragged centimeter by centimeter from one prone body.

The impression, the memory, of his bondmate hummed in the back of his mind. Even with the bond tamped down, he could feel the bloodlust. The rightness, no the _necessity_, to go after those that did such harm to prisoners.

But... other things must be considered.

Past justice. Retaliation. Revenge.

The immediate needs. Tending wounds. Protecting those harmed.

Getting Tamal's little ship out of harm's way. No doubt, on a battle cruiser this size, hundreds of talented men and women were working, even now, to restore power to shields. Weapons. Engines.

The overarching needs, too. The unknown chaos caused by rescuing the Ambassador. By the color of the coagulated blood on the walls, they'd been held and tortured for longer than he'd...

And then there's the others to think of. Not just the delegates on this ship, or the servants and Ambassador J'Mara had on the way back to ally territory. No. Hundreds, thousands of lives.

Not just Vulcan, but human. Trill. Denobulan. Beta Zed.

The Empire angered to the point of retaliation against the entire Federation.

_And eye for an eye, until all are blind._

_They took the Ambassador. The delegates. I have taken them back. And easily spilled as much blood, just getting to these few survivors. The moment we leave this ship, we are a target for the Empire. If we take this ship down, then she won't follow us, but once her wreckage is found, then..._

He ached to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"If we do not destroy this ship, she will trail us, Altern Vuron. In a surprise attack, we took her. Do not think we can do it again. Not when she's prepared for us. She saw past our cloak. Her weapons are-"

Vuron held up a hand to stall Tamal.

"Yes. I know. Get everyone back to the _Par'machkai._ Your blood may sing to return blow for blow," at this, he gestured around the room, acknowledging the wrong done here. "But those injured would not wish it done. For the sake of our immediate safety, it is prudent to either permanently disable, or destroy, this ship. I leave this to your judgement."

A wide, feral grin split the Captains face. With a word over the comm he ordered the return beamout. A couple of his men did not reappear in his transporter room. Not as many, however, as they'd taken down.

Vuron remained, calming the Vulcans with a few choice words, while the Captain stormed off to return to the bridge.

Within minutes Frenna appeared, assistants acquired from elsewhere in the ship. Rough canvas stretched between polls served as gurneys to move the injured to her medbay.

Her voice wavered while she directed men here and there. She stayed him when he turned to go to the bridge himself. Nervous energy blossomed through the bare skin of his upper arm. She jerked back as if electrified.

"What- what was that?" she asked. Eyes wide and dark.

"Touch telepathy."

"I touched you before, when..."

"When I was nearly dead, I did not have many thoughts."

"I felt such-"

He grabbed _her_ then, but the wool covering her upper arm. Dragged her into the supply alcove. Slammed the door shut behind him with a fist to the console.

"Do not-"

"...What?"

"Do not mention what I feel. Not around the other Vulcans."

Pity filled her eyes.

"Rage is a healthy thing, Altern Vuron. If cleanses the soul. It gives a warrior purpose."

"_Rage_ is a destructive force that-"

"It is only destructive if it is not tempered." Frenna smiled. "But if you do not wish me to discuss it, I will be quiet."

"Good."

Vuron took a deep, steadying breath, palmed the door open, and headed towards the main door again.

"Altern Vuron-"

He stopped. The tinkle of glass on metal a hesitant symphony behind him.

"Yes?"

"I need your help."

He closed his eyes. Breathed through his nose. Thankful he could smell no more than the coldness of the air and perhaps a whiff of his own, unbathed self.

His coworkers, those under his protection, wanted his help just about as much as he wanted to give it. Translating back and forth for the eager healer. Assisting with righting a bone here for securing, or pulling flesh there for autosuturing. Flashes of memory passed at every touch of skin-on-skin; fractured minds unable to hold back the pain relived over and over within their mind's eye. Horrors of their previous week of captivity mingled with a vague sense of accusation; why _Vuron,_ of all of them, stood before them, healthy, whole, and spared the torment they suffered. That their sole security officer had returned at all, considering he'd been turned loose for dead, in time to rescue them at all seemed to be an unobserved fact.

Frenna forced up a wall of cheerfulness as her own personal protection against the partial butchering of one Vulcan male, and kept it up throughout the rest of their work.

"Why aren't they going into that... deep sleeping thing you did?" she hissed a few hours in. "At least then they wouldn't be..."

"Staring?"

She nodded a curt agreement.

"It is possible they are injured to the point they are unable."

"You were mostly dead, and it worked wonders!"

Vuron snorted out a short breath. "My energy reserves were greater, my body conditioned for hard use, and my mind... more stable." He closed his eyes, his teeth grit to the point of pain. _Of course. Even with my bond muted by T'Sai, it is still reinforced. The rest are..._

He went to one of the women whom they'd treated hours ago.

"Allow me a mind meld."

She looked ready to argue, until Frenna's nervous energy sidled up against his back.

"You will use force?" she asked, in Vulcan, so that their hosts would not understand.

"No, never. But physical injuries are the only ones this medical equipment is designed to heal."

She thought it over for only a moment before giving a conceding nod.

The moment his fingers touched her feverish skin, he was bombarded with all she was unable to shield. Just as when he'd assisted in holding her legs down for her hip socket to be righted; worse now, since shielding himself went cross-purposes to his intent.

He felt her physical pains, the humiliations, through his own body now. He walked down a long corridor, filled with open doorways, each a new and more terrible experience that the woman could not escape. And there, part way down the hall, a turn. This one charred and blacked from previous infernos.

Doors tightly shut and locked with marks as if an inept burglar had taken a pry bar to the locks.

He touched the back of his hand against one door, unsurprised by the heat he felt radiating through the surface.

He left that hall, quickly, and returned to the open doors.

Vuron had no real skill with mind melds. Training in the art, the meditation, the awareness, of a warrior, only just touched on the inner mental awareness of _self_, and little of _other._

In passing, he wondered if that was the reason his mind had meshed so firmly into that of his mate... weaving into the weft of her _self_ and merging it with his own.

_Perhaps, if there are any mind-healers left, I will take some time to train with them, and learn how to do this correctly._

A burble of hysterical, uncharacteristic laughter echoed through the halls of the woman's mind. Echoing and mixing with the memories of her screams.

Vuron clamped down on his own musings and refocused on the task at hand.

With more determination than skill, he paced the hall of her recent memory and one by one shut the doors. Some he needed the mental focus of a latch to keep from spilling their contents again. Others sandbags. Or a barricade.

Slowly her mind quieted to a dull, throbbing subharmonic roar.

Without delving in farther than he wanted, or intended, he drew up a visual cue of a comm panel.

It didn't mesh well with her mind, more accustomed to analog imagery, but he dimmed the lights to ten percent, reduced plasma intake by fifty, slowly routed her mind until she found the path to the healing sleep and followed it to it's conclusion.

Vuron pulled away, glad for the quiet, dim medbay with it's familiar contours.

"It worked?"

He blinked at the healer, then looked down.

"Tricorder?"

She passed one to him. After a quick scan, he nodded.

"Imperfect, but she is in a better position to heal her own wounds now."

"Will you do the same for all the others?"

He looked across the room at all the twisted, supine bodies.

"If they allow it. I will need to restore my own..." He paused, thinking of a good translation in Klingon for mental shielding. Finding none, he used the words for physical defense instead.

"They fight you then, even if it is good for them?"

"Does every warrior who comes in here accept his treatment easily?"

Frenna grinned at him. "No. Almost never."

Vuron nodded his understanding.

They worked side-by-side for a little longer on the physical injuries, while Vuron's mind cycled through katas and focused on his own inner turmoils.

One falsehood kept coming up and niggling at him. Regardless of the need at the time, he could not force himself past the self-condemnation that kept his mind from returning to it's former calmness.

"May I speak with you in private?"

"Of course."

Frenna put away her tools and motioned him to follow her into a private office, of sorts.

"I must confess something."

Her eyebrows drew down in suspicion.

"Oh?"

"Councilman Talamak. He did not bring me here of his own free will. He did not rescue me, or send the order for the other's to be rescued either. I forced him to."

Her frown deepened to a scowl. "I saw you myself, when he first brought you in. You were as good as dead, Altern Vuron. There's no way you forced him to do anything."

"No, I did. I had challenged Chancellor Ka'Tra to honorable combat, to save my ambassador. Talamak took his place. I defeated him."

"You were run through with a spear."

"That was afterword."

She huffed in frustration and picked up a couple tools of her trade.

"That's is. I want to hear his side of the story. He's sat idle far too long anyway. You're coming with me."

She grabbed bare wrist and dragged him behind her.

They passed Captain Tamal on the way, derailing him from his obvious intent of going to the medbay.

"We're questioning Councilman Talamak," was all Frenna said. Within moments a little procession lined up behind them. A short coil of dread wormed around under Vuron's lungs; he did not know what they might find when they opened that door, and he didn't want to know.

He's locked it, so an engineer was called to cut through it with a hand torch. The long hall stood silent, other than the hiss and spit of plasma on metal.

The stench, once the doors finally released, sent a few of the younger men retching.

"Altern Vuron says he defeated Talamak," Frenna said, forcing herself into the room to examine the body. "That he forced the councilman to rescue him."

"This is true?" Tamal asked, his nose wrinkled at the stench.

He hovered at the other side of the desk, staring at the corpse that once was their lord, slouched now in his seat. Fingers still curled over the comm panel on the desk.

"I see bat'leth wounds. He might have bled out. But... it looks like his heart just stopped."

Vuron swallowed. Those sightless eyes stared into him. Glassy now, for being dried out in the recycled air.

"What I did was not honorable," he mumbled. Tamal glared at him, gestured or him to speak up. Vuron raised his chin and repeated himself, loudly. "I took him. Took his mind. If I did not, he would have ordered the death of my wife, and my ambassador, as I battled with him. There was no other choice."

A muscle flexed in Tamal's jaw.

"_Honorable_ combat with Talamak was... difficult to achieve," he growled. Vuron blinked over at him. "He might face you with a single blade," the captain continued. "But he found a way to hold a dagger as well. Perhaps not in _his_ hand, but he aimed the blade none-the-less. Frenna. Get rid of the body."

"Yes, sir."

"And of me?"

The captain grit his jaw again.

"As I see it, Talamak died without heirs. And died without honor. The council will fight over his lands, his properties... his ships, until they find those they need to pay off, or gain favor with. Until then, we are free agents. And as _I_ see it, I see no better man to serve, than the one who defeated the bastard in the first place."

Vuron blinked in incomprehension.

"What say you, men? Swear to serve this honorable Vulcan, husband to a great general?"

A shout of agreement rang through the stench of the room. Without a moment's hesitation.

Captain Tamal pulled his d'k tagh, flipped it in his hand so that he held the blade, and offered the hilt to Vuron.

"The_ Par'machkai _is at your service, Altern Vuron, bondmate to Lady J'Mara, General in the house of Councilwoman Bel'tath. For as long as you have need of us."

"Captain, I can't accept-"

Something dark and angry passed through those young eyes.

"Accept, for now, then. Until we've rescued the rest of your people. And cleaned some of the stains on our souls before we have to pay our fair on the ship to Stovokor."

The unease in Vuron's heart finally settled. _This_, he could accept. Later, he will accept punishment for his wrongs, but for now, he must do... what needs doing, to insure the survival of those under his protection.

He grasped the captain's dagger and sliced his palm with it, mingling his green blood with the red swell of it's former owner.

"I want an oath of loyalty from all on the ship," Vuron commanded. "Any who won't freely give it will be discharged. To the nearest space dock," he amended quickly. "Frenna, continue to treat the wounded. I wish some time with Talamak's computers to plan our next raid. I will come down to assist when I am able."

A chorus of, "Yes, sir!" rang in the air. Frenna, with the assistance of another young man, removed the body. Engineers were dispatched to clean up the mingled bodily fluids and begin sterilizing the room.

Vuron stood at the console and mulled over his options. All the resources he never asked for, now at his fingertips.

* * *

A/N: Like so many others on this site, I'd intended to get this story finished before the sequel to the movie came out. I succeeded and I didn't, because the story is only half told, and it's grown a sequel that I've been working on for a bit here and there between working on other projects.

So, if you want to find out what happened to J'Mara (et al), Far Be it From Me is the next installment. www dot fanfiction dot net /s/ 9302106 /1/ I might end up taking some of the new canon into account, but for all intents and purposes I know what the rest of their story is... I'll just need to edit here and there to keep fitting with the new AU.


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